


Somewhere to Be

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-12
Updated: 2007-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Jim's senses didn't go dormant after Peru?  Two years later, Jim is a burned out vet working in a soup kitchen. A certain grad student shows up to do research on a paper about homeless culture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This futzes with timescale a little. Jim is in Peru 1992-94.
> 
> Many, many thanks to [](http://janedavitt.livejournal.com/profile)[**janedavitt**](http://janedavitt.livejournal.com/) for the beta and to Namaste for the canon help.
> 
> Now in [awesome podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/749900) form by laurie_ky!

_Joey's Kitchen, Cascade, Washington, May, 1996_

__The soup kitchen was quiet, and Jim was grateful for the peace. The headache that had been toying with him earlier had at last sunk its teeth deep behind his eyes. But the place was quiet enough right now that he could do his work before the evening crowd drove him to his tiny room in the basement.

Joey had offered to go it alone tonight, but Jim had just shaken his head and gotten started cleaning up the stray pots and pans left over from the breakfast shift. His strange condition had already stolen almost everything from him. He was lucky the V.A. had managed to find him this placement. So he'd be damned if he couldn't even make it as a kitchen helper.

"Jim. Hey, Jimbo." There was a gentle nudge at his shoulder, and he realized he'd been standing with his hands sunk in the sudsy water long enough for it to cool. _Damn_. He'd been mesmerized by the ticking of the bubbles and the sleekness of the soapy film against his skin.

"Sorry, Joey." He cleared his throat, embarrassed. Really, Joey was so damned patient with him. "I'm almost done."

"Sure." Joey clapped him once on the back, and Jim winced. "Sorry, Jim. Forgot."

"It's all right." Jim hitched up his shoulder and rubbed his nose against it, scratching an itch.

"Anyway, no rush. Looks like there's not gonna be much of a crowd tonight. Guess folks are scared to come out."

"Scared?" Jim dipped the last pot in the sink full of disinfectant, then rinsed it off and set it on the rack. "What're you talking about?" He turned and leaned back against the edge.

Joey raised his bushy white eyebrows. "You haven't heard? There's been another death. They think it's murder this time, not just a hit and run. Happened just a block away on McAllister."

"Jesus." Jim felt the familiar, helpless rage. People dying. _His_ people dying. Before, it was the men under his command. Now, it was the folks of this poor, forgotten neighborhood. And Jim hadn't even known about it. His hearing and vision had been blowing up all week, and he'd spent most of his free time huddled behind his shrouded windows riding out the storm.

"Aren't the cops looking into it?"

Joey shrugged and turned back to the cutting board. "Yeah. This time it was an old lady."

Jim swallowed. "Old lady?" The headache swelled behind his eyes.

"She must have been at least seventy. Living on the streets all alone." Joey's voice was gruff. "They found her in a dumpster. Someone had messed her up good."

"Shit."

"That about says it," Joey said evenly. He lifted the big cutting board. It was heavy, and Joey wasn't a young man. Jim knew he suffered from arthritis to boot. So Jim casually caught the other end, helping Joey tilt it to dump the vegetables into the pot of water that was boiling on the stove.

Steam rose with a hiss that blasted Jim's oversensitive ears. The heat of the vapor struck his skin like a scald. He involuntarily released his end and jumped back.

"Shit! Sorry." Jim clamped his hands over his ears, trying to stem the blooming pain, squeezing his eyes shut against it. It felt like his brain was going to pop from the pressure.

He heard Joey curse, and then came another hiss as he dropped the rest of the vegetables in.

"Knew I should've sent you back to bed," Joey said. His voice was booming, and Jim stifled a groan.

"Sorry, Joey," he said, "It caught me by surprise. Did you get burned?"

"Nope." Joey's rough, gnarled hands grasped his forearms, and Jim let them guide his hands away from his head. "Can't those quacks at the V.A. figure this thing out?"

"No. Just had another series of tests this morning. That's why I'm no good today, I think. Goddamn doctors don't know their asses from a—"

Joey's kind blue eyes crinkled. "Need I remind you that Paulie—?"

"All except for your brilliant doctor son, of course," Jim said hastily, smiling a little even though Joey's gusty laugh was painfully loud.

Joey's brows drew down again in concern. "Looks like it's getting worse."

"Yeah," Jim admitted.

"Why don't you git, then? I told you it's gonna be quiet tonight. Besides, I have some new volunteers coming in later for the serving. Kids from the university."

"Volunteers are pretty useless until they learn—"

Joey gave him a push toward the door. "Don't worry. I'll make them toe the line."

There was a touch of the old Marine in Joey's voice, and Jim grinned a little in spite of the pain in his head.

_Bet those kids are in for a surprise._  
  


>>><<<

Jim closed the door of his tiny room with a sigh of relief. The thick black curtains he'd put up were still drawn from the afternoon, and he didn't bother trying to turn on the light. He was able to navigate easily thanks to the faint bleed coming from the streetlight outside.

He walked over to his bed and grabbed the earplugs sitting on the headstand. They were supposed to be good up to thirty decibels, but barely made a dent for Jim. Especially on Thursdays, when the big garbage trucks lumbered by. The diesel rumble of their engines was enough to have him curling in a tight ball on his bad days.

And his bad days were getting more and more frequent.

 _This could be it for me._ Jim popped the earplugs in and lay down on his small bed. He finally let himself think about what his neurologist, Dr. Gordon, had told him earlier that day.

_"We'll know more when I get back your scans, Jim, but I have to tell you I think we're running out of options. You've had adverse reactions to each of the medications we've tried, and none of them seemed to have any palliative effect on the symptoms. But there might be one other possibility...I think you should consider electroshock therapy."_

_Jim's mouth fell open._

_"Believe me, it's nothing like the horror stories of the old days. We're talking about a very controlled, very mild current, with the hopes of jolting your sensory receptor areas into a new status quo. We could start with taste—"_

_"You're not going to shock my brain." Jim rose, fighting the sudden urge to either pummel Gordon's face in or run out the door.  
_  
 _"Jim—"_

_"I can't...no. That can't be the only way."_

Jim had stumbled out of the office barely able to walk thanks to the sudden graying of his vision.

He sighed and rolled over. After the day that had followed, he was starting to reconsider the doctor's suggestion. Maybe it would take something extreme like that to fix him—make him normal again. Experimenting on his taste wouldn't be so bad. It wasn't like he'd be losing much.

But, God, he felt cold inside at the idea of electrodes, at the idea of such an invasive procedure. He'd been tortured with electricity once. Would it be like that?

Jim punched his pillow. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't fair, and no matter how many times he chanted it like a bratty little kid, it didn't change a damned thing. He'd gone from a healthy, active leader of men to a worthless, cringing pot-scrubber. His life had no meaning beyond holding on and trying to keep going.

If he had to stick electrodes in his brain, he'd do it. Ellisons, goddamn it, never gave up. It was probably the only thing of worth his father had ever taught him.

Jim put on his eyeshade and tried to tame the monster in his head.

>>><<<

He drowsed, not quite sleeping, because it was too early and he couldn't block out the drift of voices coming from upstairs. Joey's, of course, and he thought he heard Vanetta, the grand dame of the neighborhood who liked to lend a helping hand after she'd eaten her dinner. Vanetta always got served first—she was adored by everyone, especially by the children who liked to come over to her shabby but clean apartment and listen to her fantastic stories.

There were a couple of strange voices, too—a young woman's and a man's. The girl sounded light and breathy. She was asking how large a serving she should scoop out.

The young man was talking to Vanetta. His voice was low, resonant. He was asking her a lot of questions, rapid-fire, barely giving her a chance to answer. Vanetta's responses were sharp and amused.

Vanetta liked him, then. And that was a feat, because Vanetta only tended to like children, and didn't warm up to men very often. She especially didn't seem to like Jim all that much. But he didn't mind; a helping hand was a helping hand, and Jim didn't like serving the kids. The expressions on their too-wise faces depressed him.

He heard his name, and his eyes startled open behind the mask.

"—not feeling well tonight. Guess he wasn't in the mood for your company, Vanetta."

Vanetta's laughing response was too low for him to hear.

The deep voice of the new volunteer asked some more questions. Something about the rhythm of his tone was soothing, and Jim went deep into the texture of it, a rough, silky feel.

He fell asleep with the soft touch in his ears.

>>><<<

"You must be Jim. I'm Blair Sandburg."

Jim didn't turn immediately. He'd heard the unfamiliar step behind him, but he'd long ago trained himself out of the habit of spinning at an unexpected approach. He didn't want people thinking he was more of a freak than he really was.

Jim wiped his hands on a dishcloth and turned casually.

Sandburg was standing with his hip canted against the stainless steel prep table. He was shorter than Jim, and young, maybe twenty-five. He had a strong jaw and penetratingly blue eyes.

And hair. Jesus, lots of hair.

"Yeah, I'm Jim." When the guy offered his hand, Jim held his own up apologetically. "Sorry, I'm a little grimy, here." It was an easy excuse—sure, he'd been cleaning the grill, but the truth was he didn't like people touching him, not anymore. Not even for a handshake.

"Oh. Sure thing. It's nice to meet you. Joey said you weren't feeling well last night."

"I'm fine," Jim responded, his voice clipped.

Sandburg nodded and his eyes dropped to Jim's chest. "So, you're a vet, huh?"

"What? How did you—?"

A finger pointed at him. "You're wearing dog tags. At least, I'm assuming that's what those are."

Jim's hand rose automatically to cover the tags under his shirt. He cleared his throat. "Yeah." He never took them off, not even when his skin was acting up. It was the least he could do to remember his guys.

"So what was it? Army? Navy?"

Jim crossed his arms. "Kid, you annoy me."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." Sandburg shrugged. "I ask too many questions, and some people feel threatened."

Jim squared his jaw. "You're not any threat. I just don't like talking."

Sandburg's head cocked, and he grinned. "No problem, man. So..." He clapped his hands together. "Joey sent me back here to help bring out the food."

"What are you doing back here so soon, anyway?" Jim asked abruptly. "Most volunteers come maybe twice a month."

"Oh, I'm not a volunteer. I mean, I _am_ , but I'm also a grad student. Anthropology. I'm doing a paper on tribal patterns in homeless communities. A study of the organization and subsistence strategies the homeless utilize to maintain their community—"

Jim's brain was starting to hurt. And it wasn't the usual over-stimulation kind of hurt, but the dull pain of being bored out of his gourd.

"Here," Jim said, interrupting him. "Use these." He handed him a couple of potholders. "Grab the stew pot, there. And watch it—it's pretty heavy."

But in spite of his smaller size, Sandburg seemed to have no trouble with the weight. He hefted the huge pot of beef stew and carried it out of the kitchen without complaint.

Jim wrinkled his nose at the sudden explosion of scent. Today his sense of smell was acting up. But thankfully his vision and hearing had settled into normal parameters. He washed his hands, then picked up the large tray of rice and went into the serving room.

Of course, during serving he found himself elbow-to-elbow with the annoying hippie student. Fortunately, Vanetta soon appeared on the kid's other side and took the brunt of the curious questions he was spouting off.

"No, dear." Vanetta seemed soft on the kid. "My husband, Ray, rest his soul, left me a lovely apartment. But the neighborhood has changed somewhat since he died."

"But would you consider moving if you could afford it?"

"Oh, no. I've even received an offer on my property. But this is my home," Vanetta said with fierce pride. "These are my people."

Jim hid a smile at hearing Vanetta echo his earlier thoughts. _These are my people._

Just then, one of his people, Crazy Eddie, wrapped in his usual hundred layers of clothing, came shuffling through the door.

His unwashed scent hit Jim like a wall, and he dropped his serving spoon, barely registering Sandburg's start of surprise as he lunged from the room.

The bathroom was down the long hallway that led to the stairwell, and he barely made it to the toilet before heaving up his entire dinner. His stomach roiled again and again, the smell of his own bile combining with the still-lingering scent of Eddie's body odor and something else that caused uncontrollable spasms.

He was between bouts when he heard a knock on the door.

"Jim?" It was Joey.

Jim rested his forehead on his shoulder, glad that he'd cleaned the little bathroom himself just the day before. The white porcelain was spotless. Another spasm hit, and he moaned a little afterward.

"Jim!"

"Yeah," he croaked. "'M okay, Joey."

"Like hell," came the muffled reply.

"One second." Jim rose and flushed the toilet. Turning to the sink, he squeezed out some of the baking soda-based toothpaste he used. It always left his teeth feeling gritty, but was the only brand that didn't give him an allergic reaction. He scrubbed his mouth with it and then rinsed and spat a few times.

He felt shaky as he opened the door a crack to reveal Joey's concerned face.

"Sorry, Joey. My nose is acting up. Check on Eddie, would you? I smelled blood on him."

"Blood?"

The voice came from behind Joey's shoulder, and Jim opened the door further to see Sandburg standing there.

"How about a little privacy?" Jim growled.

Joey put a hand on his shoulder. "You sure you're okay? That sounded pretty bad."

"I'm fine." Jim gave a tentative sniff. "It's over. We'd better get back out there." He pushed by them. "Be sure to check on Eddie, okay?"

They were just finishing with the clean up when Joey came back into the kitchen. Sandburg was busy filling takeaway containers. Joey's Kitchen always liked to provide leftovers to whoever stuck around to take meals back to their less mobile friends.

Jim leaned over the sink and retrieved the last of the silverware from the depths of the water. His nose was annoyed by the stinging disinfectant, and he had to keep wiping his eyes. But his sense of smell wasn't out of control any longer. Maybe the funk of his own puke had shorted out the circuit. Jim smiled wryly to himself.

Joey came over to him and nudged him with a shoulder. "You were right. Eddie had a bad cut on his arm, said he got it dumpster diving. I made him go over to the clinic."

"Good. That's good." Jim liked Eddie. He was a sweetheart of a guy, for all he was a little paranoid about taking off his layers long enough to clean up. And Eddie was a vet, too, just like them.

Joey gave Jim's shoulder a squeeze and went back out. Jim pulled the plug on the drain and closed his eyes, listening to the heavy swirl of water escaping down the pipes.

"So, you just _smelled_ the blood on Eddie? From across the room?"

Jim jumped a little before edging away. Sandburg was crowding him, his young face looking eager and fascinated.

"Back off, kid."

"Seriously, Jim—that's amazing. You must have an incredible sense of smell."

Jim shook his head wearily. "Yeah. Incredible. So incredible it has me chucking my dinner." Sandburg's scent washed over to him, not unpleasant, but a little too much stimulation for his crowded brain. Jim rubbed at his forehead fretfully, wishing he were already tucked in his dark little room.

"I did a study once on people with enhanced senses...a jeweler who could identify a fake stone from three feet away, a chef who could tell you the exact percentages of spices in a stew from a single taste—"

"And I'm a soldier who can always smell blood in the room. Big deal."

"It is!"

Jim winced at the volume of Sandburg's enthusiasm. "Keep your voice down, kid."

The student looked immediately contrite. "Sorry. Hearing, too? You seem to think I'm too loud. And what about your other senses?"

"Jesus." Jim spun and moved in on the guy. "It's none of your fucking business what's going on with me, okay? Take a hike." He didn't want to touch the kid, but he tried to use his height to loom a little threateningly.

Sandburg looked completely unimpressed. "It _is_ more than one, then?"

Jim clenched his jaw. "I told you to back off. I mean it." He thrust one finger out and tapped the guy hard just above the sternum. Sandburg flinched, but only with discomfort. He didn't back down at all.

"Jim, I need to know. Please. It's important, man."

"Important to _you_."

"No, important to you, Jim. Just tell me one thing: how many of your senses are enhanced?"

"Enhanced? That's so—they're fucking out of _control_ , okay? Enhanced? Shit."

Ignoring the kid's dumbstruck expression, Jim grabbed the filled containers and strode out into the dining area to put them on the serving table. He saw Eddie sitting in the corner, and Jim took one of the containers over, mentally telling his nose to behave.

"How're you doing, Eddie?" Jim said softly. Eddie sometimes had flashbacks, bad ones, inspired by loud noises. One artillery shell too many for Eddie.

"I'm okay, Jim. Okay. Okay. How's by you?"

"I'm good, Eddie. Here—I heard you missed dinner." Jim handed Eddie the container of stew, rice and vegetables. Eddie clutched it to his chest and gave Jim a grateful look before ducking his head again, his eyes hidden behind his camouflage cap.

"Thanks, Jimbo. Thanks. Okay."

"No problem, Eddie. You take care of yourself. See you tomorrow."

Jim finished clearing the tables of trash, conscious of Sandburg joining him silently. The kid was fairly buzzing with excitement.

Jim ignored him.

When they returned to the kitchen, Joey was putting the last of the leftovers in the fridge.

"That's it for tonight, Jim. You can knock off. You too, Blair."

"Thanks, Joey." Jim turned to leave, and the kid had the audacity to grab his sleeve.

"Wait! Jim—"

Jim twisted his arm away, efficiently breaking the kid's grip. "Leave me alone, Sandburg."

"Is there a problem, Jim?" Joey's voice was even, but he straightened up, looking every inch the ex-Marine. The glare he gave Sandburg could've melted copper.

"No. No problem, man," Sandburg said, raising his hands and backing away.

"Didn't ask you." Joey turned toward Jim.

Jim relented a little at the pleading look Sandburg shot him. The kid still needed to hang out here for his homeless study; Jim knew that much. "Kid's just a little nosy, is all."

Sandburg laughed nervously. "My biggest character flaw."

Joey nodded slowly. "Yeah, well, some people don't appreciate that, Blair. Just remember." He gave Sandburg a little push toward the front. "We're locking up now. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, yeah." Blair bobbed his head once. "See you, Jim." Another blue-eyed look, pleading for something.

Jim sighed. "Sure. See you."

Sandburg flashed a grateful grin and left. Joey shook his head.

"Pesky little guy. But he's good with the folks."

Jim shrugged. "I'm gonna go down now, Joey. Thanks for...well, I'm sorry about tonight."

"No big deal, 'padre. You know that. Get some rest."

Jim nodded and went downstairs to his room. His stomach was howling at him now, his earlier nausea finally gone. He went over to his coffee table and found the bag of donuts he hadn't been able to eat that morning. But now they were heaven, in spite of the way the paper bag smell seemed to have sunk into the donuts themselves.

He was used to it. Everything tasted different nowadays. His whole life was different. Everything from eating donuts to being unable, some days, to leave his little room.

Jim finished his donuts with some bottled water and then prepared for bed. Tomorrow it was back to the V.A. to talk to his doctor. If he felt well enough he'd wake up early and get a run in before the streets were too busy with traffic noises and smells. Otherwise, he'd use the free weights—do a little upper body work. Just because his senses were rebelling was no reason to let himself go to shit. With the rest of his body in constant rebellion, his strength was his only ally.

As Jim settled down on his bed he took a moment to wonder about Sandburg's weird reaction to hearing about Jim's senses.

Pushy little bastard. Jim had a feeling he'd be back.

>>><<<

Blair ran up the stairs to his student apartment, almost bumping into Albert on the landing.

"Sorry, man. In a rush."

"When are you ever not, Blair," Alby said with a smirk. "What is it this time? Larry run out of bananas?"

"No, man. Larry went back to the primate center, you know that." Blair dug out his keys and pushed into his apartment with a wave.

It was here somewhere, in the boxes of books he hadn't managed to unpack since the warehouse fire. He hoped it wasn't damaged; it was a seriously rare volume. He hadn't even looked at it in a year, ever since his dream of finding a real live Sentinel had vanished in a waning puff of grant money. Hell, he'd never managed to find anyone with more than _one_ enhanced sense, let alone five.

But Ellison had at least two. He was sure of it.

The Burton was under a stack of old _National Geographic_ magazines. A silverfish was startled at being disturbed and disappeared into the sheaf of musty papers at the bottom of the box. Blair carefully pulled the volume out. It looked okay, even if it smelled like burnt wood and plastic.

 _First off, find references to headaches and nausea, with possible treatments._ Of course, any cures were bound to be tied to native plants that didn't even exist in this hemisphere, but Blair could probably come up with an equivalent using the compendium of homeopathic remedies Naomi had sent him.

If Blair could find a way to help the vet, maybe Ellison would be willing to talk to him about what he was experiencing. All Blair needed was a foot in the door. And he really wanted _in_ this particular door. There was something compelling about the guy beyond his classic good looks and the hard body that the T-shirt and jeans did little to hide.

The light of near-dawn was creeping in Blair's window by the time he lifted his head from the computer. He'd found references, all right, and the news was really encouraging. If Jim were experiencing even a little of what Burton had described in his volume, the chances were good he was a real Sentinel.

And Blair had a foothold on some possible remedies. The Peruvians of the rainforest apparently treated illness as a disruption of the "body-spirit harmony" and had means for re-establishing that harmony. Many involved meditation or other work with the shaman of the tribe, but some involved "arrow poisons", which were supposed to bring death to the evil spirit causing the problem.

One of the arrow poisons for easing headaches consisted of the pharmaceutical agent Acanthaceae, or, in Quechua, _misapu-panga_ , a low-growing creeping herb from the forest. Cimicifuga was thought to be a good equivalent, but they could also try bryonia.

Blair set the alarm for his noon class, stumbled into bed, and drew the sheets over his head. His brain was swimming with excitement, but his body was screaming sleep, sleep.

He slept.

>>><<<

Jim dreamed he was sitting next to a familiar man with red markings on his face. The man was bruising the leaves of a plant and dropping them into a steaming pot.

 _"This will help, Enqueri."_  
  
The language wasn't English, but Jim understood anyway. He nodded his head and pain stabbed behind his eyes.

The man leaned over and pressed his thumb against the center of Jim's forehead. It felt cool, a coolness that spread, momentarily easing the ache.

The steam from the pot rose to envelope him. He slipped into a darker dream. The jungle. He hadn't dreamed of the jungle since he'd left the V.A. hospital. He didn't want this. Bad things happened in the jungle, things he had no control over. But he couldn't stop it.

The leaves parted before his face, wetness brushing against his forehead, a taste against his lips. Not water. Coppery.

Blood. Blood everywhere, dripping from the leaves, and up ahead, the twisted limbs, the torn bodies, their ropey intestines gleaming in the too-vivid light. His men. All his men, in pieces—dead, or dying.

He charged forward, trying to shout at the top of his lungs, trying to yell for help, for a medic, but his throat was locked, the sound trapped, until he heaved a breath and _screamed—_

 __—and awoke, his throat raw, his body trembling and damp with perspiration.

 _Goddamn it._ Jim lay panting for a while and forced the nightmare back down where it belonged. After a few moments, he removed his earplugs and eye mask and did his usual early morning systems check. Skin—okay. Vision—not the best. Objects careened in and out of focus until they stabilized suddenly, settling. That was manageable. Smell was fine. He licked his hand, and the salty taste was normal. Then he stretched out his ears.

Cacophony. Rodent scratchings, early traffic noise, the ticking of a pump somewhere, water whooshing through pipes, and then he zoomed in on a strange sound, a faint gurgling wheeze. Something weird about it. What was it?

Jim rose out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and boots, then slipped up the stairs. The wheeze was coming from the back, somewhere in the alleyway that ran along the building, behind his casement window. He heard the gurgle turn into a pained gasp, and suddenly he was running for the rear exit, tearing into the alley to where the garbage bins huddled in a row. It was coming from behind them. Behind.

It was Joey, lying on the asphalt by his car. _Oh, God._

"Medic!" Jim found himself yelling, still half in his dream. He dropped to his knees.

His friend's face was a battered wreck, nothing but blood and bruised flesh. At Jim's gentle touch on his arm, Joey's eyes cracked open, just a slit of blue showing. His mouth moved.

"No. No. Don't talk. Don't try to move," Jim begged. "I'm gonna go call an ambulance. Just hang on, Joey."

Joey's hand grabbed for his and he mouthed, _Paulie_.

"Yes. Yes, I'll call Paulie next thing. Please, Joey, just don't move."

Jim jumped up and skittered back to the kitchen to grab the phone and call 911. He could hear Joey's soft wheezing almost louder than the dispatcher's voice on the other end of the line.

Hurriedly, he gave her the necessary information, begging her to contact Paul O'Brien at Cascade County General Hospital and tell him his father had been injured. With any luck, Jim could get the ambulance to take Joey there directly.

He'd give anything to have a cell phone at that moment, but he'd never had the money for it. He knew Joey had one, but it hadn't been on him. Maybe in his jacket—

Jim took precious moments to grab Joey's jacket from the hook as well as his own. He rushed back outside to Joey and settled next to him.

Gently, he lifted Joey's feet and bunched his coat underneath them to raise his legs. Then he covered Joey with his own, thick jacket before sliding his hand under Joey's head to pillow it from the hard asphalt.

And then he waited, occasionally whispering assurances to Joey, who seemed to be slipping further into shock.

Jim heard a tweeting sound coming from Joey's pocket. _The cell phone. Stupid._ He dug through the folds, locating it and flipping it open.

_"Dad? Dad?"_

__"Paulie, it's Jim. Your dad's right next to me. I think he's in shock. Someone...someone beat him. But I don't think his life is in danger. The ambulance is on its way—"

" _Jim."_ Paul's voice cracked _. "Give me his condition as best you can. Start with his pulse."_  
  
"I don't have a watch," Jim said helplessly.

 _"I do. Count it off for me."_  
  
Jim didn't even need to put his hand on Joey's wrist. He could _hear_ Joey's heartbeat. It sounded too fast. He counted it off for Paul, and then Joey's respirations. He described the bruising, and held the phone to Joey's mouth so Paul could hear his labored breathing.

_"Sounds like cracked ribs, possible involvement of the lungs...Oh, God, Pop."_

"He's going to be okay, Paul. I'll make them bring him to you."

_"Do that. God, do that. Where's the goddamned ambulance?"_

__Jim lifted his head and listened. He heard the distant siren. "Sounds like they're _en route_. You know how it is getting them to respond to an emergency down here—"

 _"Don't I know it. I keep telling Pop it's not safe, that he should just go ahead and sell the place—"_ Paul was babbling.  
 _  
_"It's his life, Paul," Jim said softly. "It's what he loves. It's how he met your mom for crying out loud."

_"I know. It's just that he's getting old for it, you know?"_

__Jim wondered if you ever became too old to help others. Maybe not. He looked up at an approaching vehicle. The ambulance, followed by a police cruiser.

"The ambulance is here."

 _"Hand the phone to the EMT so I can give his vitals._ "

Jim gestured to the approaching medic, a sandy-haired young man. "I have a doctor on the line, the patient's son. He wants to give you the information."

"Great." The man took the phone and started talking.

The other EMT quickly dropped to his knees next to Joey and checked his pulse. Joey opened his eyes, and Jim put his hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Joey. These guys are here to help you." He leaned down so Joey could see his face easily. "I talked to Paulie," Jim said clearly. "He's on the line. He'll be waiting for you at the hospital."

Joey gave a slight nod before his eyes slid shut again.

Jim moved away to give the medics room to work, then turned at the sound of footsteps.

A big, well-dressed man was approaching with another man in tow.

"Mr. Ellison? You called this in?"

"Jim. Call me Jim. Yes, I'm a friend of Joey O'Brien's—he's the man who was attacked. I work at his soup kitchen." Jim pointed behind them.

"I'm Detective Brown, with Major Crime, Cascade P.D." He offered his hand, but Jim was in no mood for amenities. He crossed his arms.

"I heard about the murders. Two of them now. Is this the same M.O.? Were they beaten to death?"

Detective Brown gave a wry grimace. "I'm not at liberty to talk about that, Jim."

Jim shook his head in disgust.

"What can you tell us?"

"Nothing much. I had just woken up. I heard a strange noise coming from the alley." Jim paused as he realized he couldn't very well tell the detective he'd heard Joey's wheezing from down in the basement. "Someone sounded hurt. I came outside and saw him. There was no one around, and he was barely conscious. He couldn't tell me anything."

"Well, maybe he will once he comes around." Brown looked around Jim and down at Joey. "He's lucky. I wonder if he got away somehow before they were done."

From that, Jim gathered the M.O. _was_ the same. He turned and looked at Joey, then scanned with his eyes up and down the alleyway. His vision zoomed crazily for a moment.

"Hey, what's that?" Jim started walking down the alley. He heard Brown mutter something to his partner and then follow him.

It was something shiny. Looked like a gum wrapper, too fresh-looking to have been lying around too long. And some cigarette butts, likewise fresh, one of them only partially burned.

Jim looked up and tilted his head at Brown. His partner knelt next to him with an evidence bag and started collecting the butts.

"Well, I'll be." Brown gave Jim a suspicious look. "You saw that from down there?"

Jim nodded. "Looks like they were waiting for him. Joey is pretty popular in this neighborhood. He helps a lot of the homeless on a daily basis. If someone is targeting them, this would be a good way to hit them where it hurts."

Brown still looked suspicious, but he nodded at the statement.

Jim excused himself for a moment and went back inside to leave a message for Betty, the cook for the morning shift. He also went next door and slipped a note under Vanetta's door. With Vanetta in the know, pretty much the whole neighborhood would learn what had happened within hours. Jim was sure Joey would be swamped with well-wishers as soon as he was up for the company.

The detectives told him they'd be following Joey to the hospital in order to get his statement later. Jim begged a ride.

In the car, Detective Rafe, Brown's partner, introduced himself and then continued with what sounded like an enthusiastic report on some new bowling alley that used black light and neon bowling balls. Jim spared a longing thought for his earplugs, which he'd left sitting neatly on his bedside table.

He was wishing for them even harder once he was in the hospital waiting room. The hospital noises were intense and varied in pitch and volume, and he could _hear_ the pain and despair of the patients within the rooms. The sharp, antiseptic odor of the floors and walls wasn't helping much, either, or the heavy smell of sickness. Jim rubbed at his temples and waited.

Brown shifted beside him and said something.

"What?"

"I said, that was pretty remarkable, how you picked up on that gum wrapper."

"I have really good vision."

"Not me. Been fighting getting glasses for a while." Brown didn't really sound suspicious anymore. Maybe a little of Jim's concern for Joey was softening his attitude. But Jim knew he'd have to be more careful in the future about letting things slip.

"How long have you known Mr. O'Brien?"

"Since the V.A. placed me at Joey's Kitchen. About a year and a half, now."

Brown nodded as if hearing something confirmed, and Jim realized he'd probably already checked up on him over the phone.

"I went to the police academy after I got out of service," Jim said, carefully watching Brown's reaction. "Finished up. But then my health took a tanker, and I had to give up on the idea."

Brown nodded again, his lack of surprise telling. "And how about now? You ever think of trying again? With eyesight like that, you could get a leg up on Forensics."

"No, I—" Jim paused to consider how to word it. "I get headaches, bad ones. I'd be pretty worthless as a cop."

He wasn't sure why he was telling this stuff to a stranger, and he shut his mouth suddenly. But Brown seemed like a decent guy, and Jim wanted a good connection with him so he could follow up on Joey's case.

For the first time in a long time Jim had a purpose outside of just getting by. First, he'd make sure Joey had everything he needed to get well.

And then, Jim was going to try to figure out how to _use_ his fucking condition to do some good for once. He was going to find out who'd done this to his friend.

He settled back to wait. It was after two o'clock before Paul came out to the waiting room, and he looked like he'd been hit by a truck. His face was pale, but he gave Jim a small smile as he walked over to greet him.

"He's going to be all right, Jim. Thank God you found him so quickly. We had to set his ribs and re-inflate his right lung. He also had a concussion, but he's lucid, and there doesn't appear to be any subdural swelling." Paul removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "God, I wish Mom were still alive."

"That's good, Paul. Real good." Jim hesitated, then reached out to squeeze Paul's arm. He was surprised when Paul dropped his other hand to put it over Jim's.

"Thank you, Jim. I can't thank you enough—"

Jim shrugged and pulled away. "I didn't do much." He turned and indicated the two detectives standing behind him. "This is Detective Brown and Detective Rafe. They're going to need a statement from Joey. Is he up to it, you think?"

Brown stepped forward. "Hello, Doctor O'Brien. We'd like to speak to your father as soon as we can, before he forgets anything."

"I think that'd be okay. But he's asking for you, Jim."

Jim nodded, and he and the detectives followed Paul to Joey's room. Jim gave a tap at the door before entering.

The back of Joey's bed was raised up high; Jim assumed so he wouldn't put too much pressure on his ribs. He had a tube under his nose. The beeping of the heart monitor was in counterpoint to his noisy breathing.

"Hey, Joey. Hell of a way to get out of doing your shift."

Joey's swollen mouth bent in a slight smile. "Jim." His voice was hoarse. He waved his fingers at the chair beside the bed.

Jim settled into it, leaning forward to put his hand on the railing. "How you feeling, old man?"

"Like I just had a three-day pass in Saigon. _After_ the fall."

"That good, huh?"

Joey lifted his hand with an obvious effort and dropped it onto Jim's.

"Hey, take it easy." Jim put his other hand on top, sandwiching Joey's. "You're gonna be fine, you tough old bastard. And we're gonna get the guys who did this."

"I notice you're assuming it was more than one." Joey's creaky voice sounded amused.

"Hell, yeah. I mean, I know you weren't a Ranger—"

"Smart-ass—"

"—But you Marines do okay in a pinch. Had to be three-to-one, at least."

"Yeah. Three of 'em."

"Did you know them?"

"I wouldn't mind hearing the answer to that." It was Brown. He moved into the room, Rafe behind him. "I'm Detective Brown, Mr. O'Brien. This is my partner, Detective Rafe."

Joey nodded, then shook his head. "Didn't know them from Adam. Young guys. All of 'em white, and kind of scraggly looking. One of 'em had his arm around my throat and a knife pushed against my back before I even knew they were there. Told me to stay still if I didn't want to be buying a new set of kidneys. Held me there while the other two started in on me."

Brown made a sympathetic noise. He had his notebook out and was scribbling fast.

"Did they say anything? Call each other by name?"

Joey wrinkled his forehead. "The guy behind me said, 'Just get on with it, Stan.' I think because Stan was fucking around, trying to kick me in this weird martial arts way while the other guy laughed. So Stan started whaling on my face until I dropped. I think they really meant to kill me." Joey stopped and swallowed suddenly. Jim lurched up and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table, offering the straw to Joey.

Joey took a few sips and then dropped his head back again.

"What stopped them?"

"There was this scream, like you wouldn't believe. Sounded horrible. I thought someone had seen what was going on. They must've, too, because they all made like rabbits and scrammed. But when I tried to look around I didn't see anyone."

Jim cleared his throat, and they all looked at him. "I think that might've been me," he said haltingly. "I was having a bad dream and woke myself up with it. My window is on the alley."

"Jesus, Jim. Must've been a doozy of a dream. You sounded like—"

"Do you remember anything else about these guys? What did their faces look like?" Jim asked quickly.

Joey's eyes squinted up. "Stan had dark hair. It was shaved on the sides and kind of floppy on top. The other punk had reddish hair down to his shoulders, like a hippie. I didn't really see the guy behind me, but he stank like cigarettes."

"Did they say anything else?"

Joey shook his head slowly, his eyes drifting closed.

"Hey, looks like you're getting tired, buddy." Jim lifted his chin at the detectives.

Brown took his cue and cleared his throat. "We'll let you get some rest, Mr. O'Brien. My partner and I will be back later with some mug books."

Joey barely seemed to have the strength to nod. Jim followed the cops out the door and walked them to the elevator.

"Look," he said quietly. "I know you can't talk about the case with me, but I know a lot of people in the neighborhood. If you need any help getting people to talk to you, come to me. I'll figure something out. A lot of folks rely on Joey and his Kitchen. They'll want to help, I know it."

"That's good to know," Brown said, sounding relieved. "We've been having some trouble getting folks to talk to us. Seems like they're scared we'll put them away or send the underaged ones back home."

Jim could understand that. The living situation on the streets didn't inspire a lot of confidence and trust in the police.

"Let me give you the number at the Kitchen." Jim waited until Brown pulled out his notebook again before reciting the number. "I won't be there for a while, though. I'm going to stay here until reinforcements arrive."

Brown nodded and offered his hand again. This time Jim took it, giving it a quick shake. His quiet partner nodded, and they left.

Jim went back to Joey's room and sat as quietly as he could in the plastic chair by the bed. Joey seemed to be sleeping comfortably. Jim amused himself by listening to Joey's heart beating in harmony with the monitor until he slipped into something of a daze.

Paul stopped by at least three times to check on his father. And then Jim heard a bustle in the corridor, and Vanetta appeared, floating into the room as if she were wearing an evening gown.

"How is he?" she whispered.

"He's just fine," Joey answered, cracking his eyes open.

"You old goat. You gave us a scare." Her mocking tone didn't hide her deep concern.

Jim rose and offered her his chair. Leaning over the bed, he caught Joey's eye. "I'm going to head back to the Kitchen, Joey. Someone's gotta prep for dinner."

"Don't you worry about that," Vanetta said. "I have a couple of friends who'll be coming by to lend a hand. You just get some rest—you look as bad as the old man, here."

"Who you callin' old, woman?"

"Gee, thanks," Jim responded at the same time, smiling slightly in surprise. Vanetta's tone was almost affectionate.

Jim gave Joey's shoulder a quick touch, and headed out.

>>><<<

He splurged and took a cab back from the hospital, but regretted it almost immediately. The smell of old tobacco, body odor, vinyl, and rotted food assaulted his nostrils, and he found himself holding his breath. The cab was vibrating, too—it was definitely time for new shocks, and the brakes had a shattering squeal that stabbed behind the bones of his ears.

By the time he got back home he was barely holding on. His stomach was pure acid from the endless cups of coffee that were all he'd taken in all day while waiting for Joey to get out of the ER. So Jim was less than happy to encounter Sandburg and a stranger in the kitchen when he let himself in.

"Jim! Hi. You look like crap, man. Come sit down."

Sandburg reached for his arm, and Jim shied back. "How'd you get in here? And who's this?"

"Betty let us in before she left. And this is a friend of Vanetta's. Craig, this is Jim."

The stranger, a young blond guy, offered his hand, looking a little hurt when Jim didn't take it. "I work with Vanetta's grandson, Roy. He's the manager at the restaurant where I'm lunch chef."

"You're a chef?" Jim could feel his eyebrows trying to crawl up his scalp. "Vanetta found us a real chef?" He found himself laughing weakly at the image of this kid whipping up a gourmet meal for the denizens of the neighborhood. The day couldn't get any crazier.

He was still laughing when Sandburg nudged him down onto one of the benches in the serving area. A warning pang in his skull shut him up pretty fast, though, and he groaned and rested his head in his hands.

"Jim, let me get you some tea, okay? Craig here is all set to make dinner."

Jim snorted again weakly. "Okay. Sure." He rubbed his temples. The skin of his forehead felt tight and hot.

He was utterly exhausted, and he must have sunk into another daze, because before he knew it there was a steaming cup in front of him and Sandburg was sitting across from him.

"How's Joey doing?" Sandburg asked quietly.

"God. He's...he's all right, but they really did a number on him. If I ever catch up to those bastards—" Jim's hand clenched into a fist on the table.

"I'm glad he's okay, Jim. Real glad." Funny thing was, Sandburg really did sound relieved.

The heat from the cup brushed against the back of Jim's hand, and he raised it to sniff at it.

"What the hell? You call this tea, Sandburg? It smells like an old sock!"

"It's not your normal tea, I grant you. I did some research last night and..." Sandburg leaned in and lowered his voice, "This is the modern world equivalent of misapu-panga, which is a Peruvian herb the—"

"That's Quechua," Jim said dully. "I know that plant. Deep green with red veins. Find it low. Usually in shade." He suddenly became aware that Sandburg had stopped breathing. "What?"

"Jim." Sandburg shook his head. "How did you know that?"

Jim shrugged. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? How do you know Quechua? And this stuff doesn't smell anything like misapu-panga."

"It's not supposed to, Jim. It's not like we can find that here. This is cimicifuga, an equivalent remedy. Hopefully." And Sandburg actually crossed his fingers, which to Jim's tired mind was a little amusing. A hippie _and_ superstitious, apparently.

Jim lifted the mug and took a careful sip. It smelled awful, but it didn't really taste bad. Kind of nutty, a little like chalk.

"To answer your question, I did some research last night about headaches. Well, the research was on more than headaches—it was on a subject I've spent a lot of time on: people with enhanced senses."

Jim put the mug down carefully. It was shaking slightly in his hand.

"Jim, don't get angry, okay? But I think I know what's going on with you."

Jim struggled to contain the sudden rage, an outflowing of his frustration and anger over what a screwed up joke his life had become.

"What's _going on_ with me is I have a fucking condition and the doctors don't know shit, Sandburg. They say maybe post-traumatic stress. They say possible exposure to some virus when I was in the jungle. They've tested me up the wazoo, put me on so many drugs I can't think straight, and now they want to try electroshock on me, for fuck's sake."

"Jim! No! You can't let them _do_ that to you!" Sandburg sounded totally panicked.

"I don't want to, believe me, but this _thing_ , it's...it's..."

"Getting worse."

Jim's head dropped. "Yeah." He lifted the tea and took another sip. It actually seemed to be helping a little—that was the crazy thing. Like a knot between his eyes was slowly coming loose.

_"Drink this, Enqueri. Breathe it in deep."_

A gray pot hung over a fire. The sharp scent of bruised leaves bit his nose. Jim shook his head, startled by the powerful memory. The voice, so familiar, teased at his mind. Incacha.

 _I forgot him. Oh, my dear friend._  
  
Blair's voice intruded. "What did you mean about being in the jungle? Have you been to Peru? Is that how you know how to find misapu-panga?"

With a sensation strangely like surrender, Jim nodded his head. The guy seemed to want to _know_ everything. His motives weren't clear, but it was obvious that at least part of it was an innocent hunger for knowledge.

Jim explained, "Incacha showed me how to find it. He was shaman of the Chopec I stayed with when I...when I was there. I was there a long time."

"Why?" Sandburg sounded breathless.

Jim shook his head. The memories were pushing, pressing against the veil. He pushed back.

"Why were you there, Jim?" Blair prodded again when Jim didn't respond.

"I was on a mission. It went bad. I had to wait eighteen months for my relief to show."

There was silence from the other side of the table. Jim took a long swallow of the tea, now almost cool enough to drink comfortably. He inhaled from the cup, thinking of Incacha, wondering how he could have forgotten his shaman, why he hadn't even recognized him in his dream.

"Jim, I have something to tell you, and I don't want you to freak."

"I'm a little too tired to freak, Chief." _Why did I just call him that? As if he were one of my men?_

"It's possible the problem you've been having with your senses is genetic. I think you're what Burton calls a Sentinel—someone who, in older times, was kind of a watcher, a warrior who looked out for the tribe—"

_"Tell me what you see, Enqueri. Look, listen, tell."_

"Burton was an anthropologist who studied Sentinels back in the 1800s. Last night I found references in his monograph to Sentinels having problems controlling their senses and suffering from spikes that caused migraines, nausea, allergic reactions."

_"When the mind fools the body, it falls out of balance."_

__"Jim? Jim? Oh, man."

A soft touch on his arm jerked him back, and he looked into Sandburg's face.

Jim took a deep breath. "I'm not sick? I'm a Sentinel?"

The kid's face split into a wide grin.

"Yeah, Jim. You're a Sentinel. And I'm going to help you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is in four parts for reasons of length.

The kid— _Blair_ , Jim reminded himself—made him another cup of tea. And this time, in spite of the sock-smell, Jim inhaled the steam, thinking of Incacha and his crusty old cooking pot.

People started lining up for dinner, and a couple more of Vanetta's friends showed up to take over the serving. Still feeling shaky, Jim brought Blair downstairs to his room for more privacy.

It was weird having someone other than Joey in his room. Jim realized with some surprise that Blair was his first real guest. He was a little embarrassed at the starkness of his space, of the heavy black curtains and the shabby furniture. All signs of a man whose life had taken a strange and pathetic turn. But Blair seemed completely unaware of how sad it all looked. He grabbed the chair by Jim's desk, spun it around, and straddled it backward.

He was talking a mile a minute about Sentinels and arrow poisons and meditation techniques. Jim sat down on the bed, his back against the wall, and let the babble wash over him. He was completely done in.

Blair must've noticed him yawning, because he stopped mid-sentence and cocked his head.

"You look worn out. Let me get out of your hair for now. I'll come back tomorrow." Blair reached into his knapsack and pulled out a book. "I want you to read the chapter on meditation I've marked off. Using homeopathic remedies is only part of what you need to help you, Jim."

"Meditation? Not really my bag, Chief."

"It's gonna have to be." Sandburg's grin was unrepentant.

And charming as hell. Jim was going to have to watch that if they were going to be spending time together. He couldn't afford to get too close, to fall into an attraction. No matter how good-looking the kid was.

"And here's some more of the cimicifuga. But you shouldn't drink more than a cup or two a day. That's why we have to work on the meditation."

"Yeah, yeah."

Blair got up to go. He'd slung his backpack over one shoulder and was halfway to the door before Jim roused himself.

"Hey, Chief?"

Blair turned.

"Just want to say...thanks. I think this is the first time in a month I'm going to bed without a headache."

Blair's smile could've powered the city of Cascade. And maybe the outlying suburbs to boot.

"Anytime, man. Anytime."

>>><<<

Blair was riding high on his success all the way back home. He'd found a Sentinel. Not only that—he'd broken through. Jim had listened to him. Hell, it seemed like Jim almost expected the news.

And that was weird. The Peru thing was a complete surprise. What were the chances of a soldier Sentinel landing in the same jungle where Burton had spent so much time doing his research?

Something about Jim's abbreviated story was ringing a bell. As soon as he got home, Blair booted up his laptop and did what he should have done the night before—he ran a news service search on James Ellison.

The first link that showed up almost made him swallow his own tongue. It was a cover story from _News_ magazine. And there was Jim, looking young somehow, his haunted expression twisting Blair's gut in a knot.

_"I had to wait eighteen months for my relief to show."_

Jesus. Jim was _that_ guy, the soldier who'd been left behind for a year and a half, presumed dead, abandoned in territory he'd had to defend against drug cartel mercenaries. Blair remembered reading about it and feeling a slight twinge of jealousy for the soldier who'd lived native for such a long time among the Chopec.

Probably Jim hadn't felt so lucky.

But he'd spoken of a shaman there. So he hadn't been alone to deal with the senses then. Blair wondered why they were causing him so much trouble now. Maybe without a shaman to help him, they'd simply become too much to handle.

Or maybe living in an urban environment was just too overwhelming for a Sentinel. The thought was more than a little disheartening. He had to find a way to help Jim. Blair _knew_ he could.

He'd only gotten four hours of sleep the previous night, so he shut down and went to bed. His last thought as he slipped into sleep was he'd finally found his Holy Grail.

So what the hell did he do now?

>>><<<

The first thing Jim did the next morning was reschedule his medical appointment. Thankfully, the senses seemed to be behaving themselves this morning. Jim ate a quick breakfast and headed over to the hospital to check on Joey.

He found Paul there, slumped in the chair by his father's bed. The scene gave Jim a little bit of a twinge. The Army had notified Jim's father that he'd been found, but he hadn't heard a word from the old man. Apparently even being thought dead didn't buy him any forgiveness for straying from the accepted Ellison path.

"Paul," Jim whispered, touching his shoulder.

Paul jerked and looked up at him foggily, his glasses crooked on his face.

Jim smiled. "Wake up and get your ass home. I'll take this shift."

He said it softly, but Joey stirred and groaned.

"How're you feeling, Pop?" Paul asked warmly.

Joey gave them both what, under other circumstances, would've have been his usual grumpy bear look, but with the swelling and bruises on his face just looked pitiful.

"How do you think I'm doing? And what are you still doing here, boy? You should be home in bed with that pretty wife of yours."

"Helen will be by later to chew us both out," Paul said. "But right now I have to make rounds before I head home."

"I brought something to keep us busy, Joey," Jim said, stepping forward and pulling a deck of cards from his pocket. "Get ready to lose your shirt at rummy."

"Talk is cheap, Jimbo."

Paul laughed and dropped a kiss on his father's head. Jim politely turned his head away and opened the deck of cards.

"See you later, guys." Paul left. Jim heard him say hello to some nurse in the hallway and give her a subtle reminder that his father was the patient in 301.

Jim pulled the side table over Joey's bed and lowered it so it was practically in Joey's lap. The heart monitor wasn't beeping anymore; apparently they thought Joey was out of serious danger.

"So, gin rummy, huh? You think you stand a chance, Army?"

"Guess you're about to find out, old man." Jim shuffled and dealt.

>>><<<

Brown and Rafe stopped by in the afternoon to ask Joey some more questions. Joey spooned up his applesauce and tried to answer. Jim was impressed by the quiet questioning, the way Brown dug for details he was sure Joey didn't even know he had. Then Brown pushed aside the remains of Joey's lunch and opened a mug book on the table.

_I could've been a detective, one of these guys. Talking to victims, hunting down clues._

The thought was depressing, but at least he was having a good day today. Jim sat back and did a quick systems check. For some reason his senses weren't—what was the word Blair had used last night?—spiking _—_ like they normally did. _Spiking is a damned good term for it. Sometimes it feels like an ice pick going straight into my skull._

 __As if thinking about Blair were a hidden signal, the guy suddenly appeared at the doorway. Vanetta came in with him, and suddenly the room was way too crowded. Brown and Rafe seemed to sense it, because they wrapped up with Joey and made polite goodbyes. Brown gave Jim a look before leaving, and Jim followed him out into the hallway.

"I think there's more to this than some rotten kids getting their jollies," Brown said with no preamble.

Jim was surprised at the confidence. "Yeah? What makes you think so?"

"Joey identified one of his attackers, Stanley Scalia. The guy is young, but he has a list of priors as long as your arm, most of it in contract stuff, enforcement, things like that. I think someone might've hired him."

"Jesus. Who? Why would they be interested in Joey?"

"That, my friend, is what Rafe and I are gonna find out."

"Count on it," Rafe said.

Jim was impressed by their quiet certainty. "Like I said, anything I can do, you let me know."

"I just might take you up on that." Brown gave him a clap on the arm, and then he and his partner took off.

Jim went back into the room. Vanetta was _tsking_ over Joey's lunch and unwrapping some goodies she'd brought along with her. She was sitting in Jim's chair, and Blair had located another and was sitting next to her, talking to Joey. From the sound of it, Joey was grilling him on how things had gone with the dinner shift the night before.

"Have you eaten lunch, Jim?" Vanetta asked him sweetly. His surprise must have shown on his face, because she added, "I brought enough for both of you."

"That's...kind. Thank you, Vanetta."

She arched her eyebrow and passed him a thick turkey sandwich. Jim took a bite and for a moment his taste buds were in heaven; the next second they were on fire.

 _Hot—fuck! Spicy mustard?_ Jim tried to control his reaction, but the fire raged on his tongue, and finally he had to walk as quickly as he could to the bathroom to spit out the mouthful and rinse his mouth. He waited a moment before flushing the toilet as cover and coming back out.

Vanetta was chatting with Joey. If Jim didn't know any better, he'd almost think she was flirting with the old man.

Jim's eyes drifted over to Sandburg and found him staring at him from across the room. His mouth moved, and Jim heard him ask, "You okay?" He barely vocalized it, his voice so low he couldn't reasonably have expected Jim to hear.

Except he obviously did, because he gave a little smile when Jim jerked in reaction.

Jim felt suddenly cold and exposed. Sandburg knew about him. Knew that he was different, worse than a circus freak.

Jim edged toward the door. "Looks like you're in good hands, Joey. I've got an appointment, so I should go."

"Okay. Thanks, Jim. And don't forget you owe me a couple grand."

"Put it on my tab, old man."

Jim walked out. He heard Joey laugh and challenge Vanetta to try her luck against him in rummy. Then he heard sneakered feet squeaking behind him.

Turning, Jim gave Sandburg his best glare.

"What?" Sandburg raised his hands. "What'd I do?"

An orderly brushed by, and Jim backed up to let the man pass.

"You didn't do anything, Sandburg," Jim whispered tensely. "I have to go. I have a doctor's appointment."

Blair's eyes widened. "But, Jim, there's nothing _wrong_ with you."

Jim laughed harshly. "Sure. Nothing. That's why I've dropped twenty pounds in the past six months, why I can't sleep, why sometimes my goddamned head hurts so bad a pillow feels like a block of cement."

"But I told you—I can help you."

"What, you're gonna make me a cup of tea? Make it all better?" Jim turned and walked away.

Blair followed, a jittering presence at his elbow. "It helped the other night, didn't it? And I told you, there's other stuff. Meditation techniques. Breathing exercises—"

The elevator was at the end of the hallway, but suddenly it zoomed in Jim's vision, the metal doors speeding toward him like a train. Jim winced and froze until they snapped back into the distance.

 _Jesus, it's like living in a cartoon universe._ His head throbbed.

"—when the Chopec shaman was working with you?"

"What?"

"I don't remember his name, but you told me you worked with a shaman."

"Incacha," Jim said absently. He got himself moving again.

"Yeah, Incacha. Did you have problems when he was helping you?"

Memories flashed in his head: Jim on point, leading a scouting party only to lurch off the trail to throw up; Incacha murmuring to him, his cool hand on Jim's forehead; Jim going into a daze, trapped by a sonic web of bird calls.

There were always so many things waiting throw him into that strange space—the not-thinking space, where he just experienced things in an endless, fractal loop. The world surrounding him was so complex, and even the simplest structures twisted into infinity.

"Jim?" Blair nudged him.

"Yes," Jim said.

"Yes?"

Jim pushed the button for the elevator and turned. "Yes, Sandburg. There were problems. Even with Incacha, who was trained to handle fr—people like me. And I'm tired, you get it? I'm tired of being at the mercy of these damned senses. I want my fucking _life_ back."

The elevator arrived and Jim stepped in, letting the doors close away Sandburg's pleading stare.

>>><<<

Dr. Gordon eyed Jim over his case folder. "You seemed pretty dead-set against the suggestion at your last appointment. Have your symptoms worsened?"

Jim rubbed his forehead. The glare of the fluorescents arced like halos around Gordon's head, the framed licenses on the wall, the edges of the painfully bright X-ray cabinet.

"Yes, I—can't eat. The nausea is much worse. And things smell wrong, taste wrong."

"We could try you on anti-nausea medication. Compazine has proven effective for chemotherapy patients."

Jim nodded wearily.

"Are you having difficulty right now? I notice you're squinting."

"The light. It's shimmering. Almost in a rhythm."

Gordon raised his eyebrows. "I agree if the symptoms are worsening we should try the electroshock. I don't need to tell you you're weighing in at eighty-five percent your normal body-weight per your Army records. We can't allow that to continue."

Jim shook his head. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kept a meal down. Those donuts he'd had? No, wait—he'd eaten breakfast this morning. Toast and eggs. He hadn't even noticed the lack of his usual nausea.

_That tea Blair gave me last night...it helped. It did._

__"—and since these visual and auditory hallucinations are happening more frequently—" Gordon droned on.

 _But Joey's wheezing_ wasn't _a hallucination. Paul said if I hadn't found him so quickly he could have died from shock and lack of oxygen._

"I'll schedule you an appointment with the radiology clinic as soon as I can. I'll be the one to administer the procedure, of course. If we can get one of your senses functioning normally, we'll try the others."

 _I saw that gum wrapper from a hundred feet away. That wasn't_ normal. _But it was real._

 __"I may...let me think about it a little longer," Jim said carefully. "I'm not sure I want to go this road just yet."

Gordon looked disappointed. "All right, Jim. But don't let it go too long. Don't be in denial about the seriousness of your condition."

 _It's not a condition_ , Jim wanted to say. _Blair says I'm a Sentinel. He says this is normal for me. Blair_ says _._

And, God, Jim wanted to believe.

>>><<<

Jim didn't have the energy to fill his Compazine prescription. He took the afternoon bus home and stumbled down the hall with barely a nod at Craig, who was busy cooking the evening meal. The smell of some kind of meat simmering on the stove sent Jim detouring into the john, where he heaved dryly into the toilet for a few minutes. There was nothing in his stomach to purge, but that didn't seem to make a difference.

His eyes were squinted shut, tears running down his face, as he did his usual swish and rinse. The baking soda taste was neutral enough and seemed to settle his stomach. He drank a little water and then eased the door open.

He kept his eyes closed as he lurched down the stairs to his room. A strangely familiar scent assaulted him as he opened the door.

Blair.

"Jesus, Jim."

Jim felt a hand close around his arm and tug him toward his bed. He followed blindly, his eyes still closed, trusting in the touch. Blair nudged him, and Jim let himself drop facedown, the bed frame creaking under his sudden weight.

Jim took a shuddering breath and buried his face in the clean scent of his pillow. Slowly, he became aware that Blair was whispering something; that his hand was resting in the center of Jim's back as if anchoring him to the bed.

"It's gonna be okay, Jim. You're gonna be fine."

Jim let out a weary sigh. Nothing was fine. Everything was frayed, his senses spinning and zooming and pulsing with his hoarse panting, with the rapid beating of his heart.

"Breathe with me, Jim. In—wait—out. Again. Come on."

Jim slowed his breathing, following the instructions.

"In—out. Good. Good."

"Better," Jim mumbled into the pillow.

"That's great. Keep doing it. I'm going to go upstairs and brew you some of the cimicifuga, okay?"

Jim nodded wearily, ashamed of showing such weakness, but helpless to do anything about it. He drifted, trying to control his breathing. Slowly, his senses settled and stopped their wild careening. A few minutes later Blair was back—patting him on the shoulder, urging him to sit up.

He held his breath and struggled upright. Blair grabbed his pillow and tucked it behind him so Jim could rest against the wall. Then Blair handed him a hot mug.

Jim held it close and drew the steam in through his nose and mouth. It smelled different for some reason, more green somehow. Jim frowned.

"I added some other herbs to help with the scent. You said it smelled like socks last night."

"Oh. Thanks," Jim muttered. He forced himself to take a sip. Not bad. When his stomach didn't rebel, he took another.

"Jim." Blair sat down on the bed next to his leg. "What you said today at the hospital about that treatment—"

"I don't think I'm gonna go through with it. I just—I'm sorry, Chief, but I got weirded out. I guess I freaked a little." He opened his eyes finally.

Sandburg was frowning at him. "What were you freaking about?"

Shrugging, Jim waved his cup, almost spilling the contents. "About all this—this Sentinel thing. The way you knew I'd hear you. The way you seemed to—I could tell you were excited about it. But I don't think it's exciting. I think it sucks."

Blair nodded slowly. "Yeah, I hear you. But, Jim, what I think is terrific is the future I see, okay? Not how you're feeling right now, but how you _will_ be, when we've got all the kinks worked out. And we will. I'm gonna figure this out. I'm gonna help you."

Jim chewed that over. "Why?"

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Why help me. Why do all this?" Jim held up the mug in demonstration. "What's in it for you?"

"What—hell, _everything!_ I mean, do you have any idea—? Of course you don't. Listen, man, I've been dreaming of this for years. The idea of meeting someone with all five senses enhanced, of working with them, learning what that could mean in a modern society...it's like, Holy Grail time, you know? I just _knew_ someone like you was out there. You're the living embodiment of my pet theory."

It was too much. _Sandburg_ was too much. Too goddamned enthusiastic, too admiring. And Jim couldn't think of a more pitiful object for Sandburg's enthusiasm.

_I'm a wreck. I can't even pass by a pot of beef without upchucking. I can't walk down a hallway without closing my eyes. I'm a freak._

But he couldn't say that to Sandburg, who was glowing at him as if he really were that Holy Grail.

"It's your funeral," Jim said instead, and buried his nose in the steam again.

Blair laughed as if Jim were joking. "Man, I can't wait to see what you're capable of. But first, we have to get a handle on things." He got up and retrieved the book he'd left.

"All right." Jim sipped at his tea while Blair leafed through the tome.

"Did you do your reading?"

"Do—? No. Sorry."

"Okay, well, let's start with that. I'll go over it with you."

So Blair started reading to him parts of the chapter on meditation, at the same time writing up a cheat-sheet of meditation exercises. Then he wanted Jim to try one.

"No offense, buddy, but I don't think I can do that right now. My head—"

"Isn't the tea helping?"

"Yeah, it's helping, but I haven't eaten anything since breakfast."

"Shit! Sorry." Blair got up and dropped the book on the bed. "Let me go upstairs and get you something."

"I'm not an invalid, kid."

Blair cocked his head and gave him a grin. "I notice you only call me that when you're ticked off."

Bright guy. Too bright, really. And too damned good looking.

"Anyway, I'm hungry, too. I'll get us both something. And then we can do the first of these exercises, okay?"

Jim bowed to the inevitable. "Ten-four, Chief."

>>><<<

Blair realized he never should have left the night before. He should've stuck around and cemented things a little better, because Ellison had given him a complete heart attack this morning. Somehow Blair had managed to really step in the dog shit—Jim was carrying baggage about the senses, and Blair had pushed some panic button without even knowing it.

He'd left the hospital and given his afternoon lecture on full autopilot, three-quarters of his brain obsessing over where he'd gone so wrong, and trying to figure out how to fix it. No _way_ was he going to let Jim go the Western medicine route, with its prescriptions and procedures that treated him as if being a Sentinel were a fucking _disease._

But things were copacetic now. Jim was eating—not quickly, true, but he was definitely getting the stew down—and after, Blair would walk him through a meditation. He needed to find a way to help Jim achieve basic control, because obviously that was the most significant problem.

Jim sighed and put down the bowl. He'd managed to eat about half of it.

"Okay." Blair rubbed his hands together. "I want you to lie down. We'll start with a relaxation exercise, and then try a visualization."

Jim frowned and mumbled something.

"What's that?" Blair cupped his ear.

"I said I hate this crunchy-granola stuff, Sandburg."

"Tough nuts," Blair said cheerfully. "You'd better get used to it. Because the alternatives are not pretty, Jim. And I _know_ this will work."

Jim didn't grumble any further, but stretched out on the bed. Blair allowed himself exactly two seconds of staring at that long, hard body settling onto the mattress before he cleared his throat.

"I want you to focus on each of your limbs in turn. Start with your left leg. It's heavy, Jim. Heavy and warm. It's so heavy it's sinking into the mattress. At the same time, I want you to imagine the letters being typed on a page...left leg heavy, left leg heavy. Got it?"

"Got it." Jim frowned in concentration.

"Hey, no frowning. Relax. Relax and breathe. Left leg heavy. Left leg heavy."

"Left leg heavy," Jim repeated in a mumble. His chest expanded on a deep breath, and as he let it out, Blair saw his face smooth.

Blair looked at his watch, and after forty-five seconds he said, "Okay, now your right leg. It's heavy and warm."

"Heavy and warm," Jim said, barely audibly.

"Don't fall asleep on me." Although, really, the poor guy looked beat.

"I'm not," Jim protested.

They continued in sequence with each of his limbs, and then all of them together. The tension in Jim's face had relaxed, making him look defenseless.

"Okay," Blair said as softly as he could. "Now, focus on your skin, the heat between you and the bed, the feeling of your clothes touching you, the air on your face and arms. I want you to imagine in your mind's eye a slide lever, or a knob, like a volume dial. Can you do that?"

"Yeah...volume knob," Jim sounded drugged.

"Good. That knob represents your skin, the feeling on your skin, okay? Now I want you to turn it down until you can't feel the air, just your clothing."

There was a long pause. The frown reappeared faintly on Jim's forehead.

"I can't."

"You can, Jim. Feel the air, now make it feel dead."

After a long moment, the frown smoothed again.

"'S working. No air."

"Okay, now turn it down some more, until you can't feel your clothes touching you."

No frown this time, but a lightening of Jim's features. His mouth fell open. "Did it. I can't feel it. Weird. Like numb from the doctor." Jim raised his hand and pinched his own arm. "This is nuts."

"Nuts, but you did it, Jim." Blair had to bite down hard on sounding too excited. He wanted Jim to think this wasn't anything special, that of _course_ it had worked, because nine-tenths of biofeedback control was _believing_ you had it. "Open your eyes."

Jim opened his eyes and immediately winced them shut again.

"Okay, just open them a little bit, Jim, just a crack."

The blue of Jim's irises slitted up at him.

"Okay. Visualize not a volume knob, but a dimmer switch. The light is too bright. Dim the switch."

Jim's forehead creased, and then he cautiously opened his eyes wider, only to groan. "It's still crazy. Not too bright anymore, but everything keeps zooming in and out."

"Okay, okay. Think like a telescope, then. The big barrel ring. You control it. Turn it until my hand looks like it's a couple of inches across, and then lock it there." Blair held his hand out a few feet away. Jim stared at it, swallowed hard, and closed his eyes. Then he opened them again, his frown fierce.

It took a while, and Blair's arm was starting to get tired, but eventually Jim's face relaxed. "Got it," he said, wonder in his voice. "It's staying steady."

Blair couldn't even try to hide his excitement this time. "That's terrific, Jim. You did it first try. You're a natural, man."

And, really, it was remarkable how well Jim was doing. Maybe being a Sentinel also meant having a predisposition for control over his senses, because Blair had never seen anyone master a biofeedback technique so quickly.

" _You_ did it, Chief." Jim's eyes moved to Blair's face. "What next?"

But Blair didn't want to push it; he wanted Jim to stop on a high note. "That's enough for now. We'll work on some more tomorrow."

"But—"

"How's your head?"

Jim blinked, looking surprised. "It's good. It's _real_ good...God, I can't believe—" His eyes squeezed shut suddenly, and he turned his face toward the wall. Blair saw a muscle in his jaw start to twitch.

Bending down, Blair grabbed his backpack. He pulled out his notebook and moved over to the desk to give Jim a little privacy. He could hear Jim breathing harshly behind him.

It took Blair a few minutes to transcribe their exercise, chart the timings, and note the visualization cues. By the time he was done, Jim had grown quiet. Blair turned and saw Jim had stood and was reaching up to open the heavy black curtains shrouding the small windows near the ceiling.

It was sunset, and a low gleam of light splashed in to paint the room gold. Jim turned around and met Blair's eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Blair grinned back. He realized this was the first time he'd seen Jim smile. It sure was worth the wait.

"So, I, uh, guess I'll see you tomorrow," Blair said awkwardly. "I have classes all day, but I'll be back around four-thirty?"

"Yeah, tomorrow, Chief. And...thanks."

He hadn't needed to say it. Blair could feel Jim's gratitude rolling off him like a wave of pure energy.

Blair rode it out the door feeling on top of the world.

>>><<<

Jim sat back down on his bed. For the next hour he tested his newfound controls. It wasn't easy, that was for sure. He would reach, fumbling for where he thought they were, only to have nothing happen. But when he relaxed, he found them again, right there under his fingers almost. He practiced turning the sensitivity of his skin up and down, raising the hairs on his forearm by drawing a fingertip over it, then taming the goose bumps by spinning the knob back down.

Sight was much harder. There was more than one control, and Jim sensed there were at least a couple more he hadn't even found yet. But the zooming he could handle easily, and he found he could get even closer, from telescope to microscope. Fascinated, he stared at his own arm, at the base of a hair, where the follicle gaped like a pit...shadowed...hair shaft like a tree trunk—

 _Knock, knock._ "—Mr. Ellison—?"

—overlapping scales edged with light—

"—Are you okay in there—?"

 _Shit._ The room had grown dim. Hours must've passed. Jim rose stiffly and went to the door, opening it to see Craig's anxious-looking face.

"I, uh, I wanted to lock up, but I don't have the keys. Miss Van told me to have you do it, but I guess you were really sleeping, huh?"

"Sorry, Craig. I was...yeah, sleeping."

Craig's eyes didn't believe him. "O-okay, well—"

"I'll come lock up." Jim rubbed his hand over his face. It felt stiff. "Look, Craig, I just want to thank you for everything you're doing for Joey. I'm sorry I haven't been able to hold up my end—"

Craig waved his hand. "It's nothing, seriously. I owe Vanetta everything, you know? When my family got tossed on the street, she took care of me every afternoon after school while my mom went to work. In fact, Miss Van is the reason I became a chef."

"She's quite a lady."

"You got that right." Craig smiled cautiously. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Look, I think I'll be able to handle supper tomorrow if you need to take care of your own business."

"No, that's okay. I'm on lunches at the restaurant—"

"Really, Craig, I think we'll be fine. Tell you what—I'll call you if there's any problem."

"You sure?" Craig looked torn. "Because Miss Van would never forgive me if I let you guys down."

"You aren't. Don't worry."

"Okay, well. I guess I'll see when I see you. And if you ever want to eat out for a change, come by Chez Rafael's. We give good lunch."

 _As if I could afford it_. But Jim nodded and followed Craig upstairs to see him out. The kitchen was dark, the lights low in the main room. The place felt empty and clean—ready for the next morning. When Craig hesitated in the doorway, Jim offered his hand. "Thanks again for everything, Craig."

Craig shook his hand and held it for a little too long, his fingers curled warmly against Jim's.

"No problem, Jim. Anytime."

Jim let go and closed the door slowly.

 _Well. That was interesting_.

Truth was, the day had been more than interesting from start to finish, and Jim was almost half-asleep. And hungry again, too. He stopped by the fridge, grabbed one of the takeout containers, and ate the contents swiftly while standing by the sink.

He barely had the energy to brush his teeth, crawl into bed, and don his sleep mask and earplugs. But before he dropped off he stroked the skin on his arm—just a quick test to see if his control was real.

It was.

Smiling, Jim fell asleep.

>>><<<

The next morning he woke up early and ate a full breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast and a couple of cups of real coffee. He hadn't dared to have anything but decaf for months, but he was feeling brave and more than a little rebellious.

He was careful, though, to drink some of Blair's tea concoction as well.

Then, for the first time in three weeks, Jim went to the YMCA. He couldn't manage his full workout, but he did do two rounds in the weight room and a half-hour running on the treadmill. He was pouring sweat by the time he was done.

He loved every second of it.

Some of his elation must've been showing, because when he visited Joey, his boss gave him a double take.

"Hey. You're looking a little less like dog crap today, Jim."

Jim grinned cheerfully. "I wish I could say the same to you, old man, but it'd be a downright lie. And you know my mom taught me never to lie."

Joey barked a laugh. "And what did your daddy teach you?"

"How to kick your ass at rummy, of course."

Of course, he didn't. Joey not only looked better, but he obviously was feeling better, as well. Hopefully he'd be ready to go home soon.

Vanetta showed up promptly at noon and effected a rapid substitution of Joey's lunch with her own homemade sandwiches. This time the spicy mustard didn't faze Jim at all; he just dialed down his tongue, which was a strange sensation in and of itself, a little like going to the dentist. Though the sandwich didn't taste very good as a result, he got it down, and for a change it _stayed_ down.

Jim was smiling quietly to himself at this stupendous achievement when Vanetta turned to him and asked, "How are you today, Jim?" __  
  
There was something funny in her tone, a note of concern.

"I'm just fine, Miss Van. And how are you?"

She frowned, her papery white skin folding into tiny, even wrinkles on her brow. "Don't try to snow me, young man. Craig told me you weren't feeling well last night."

Jim shrugged. "Ah. Well, I'm feeling fine today. Really." More seriously, he said, "And thanks for sending him to us. We couldn't have kept the Kitchen open the last few days without him."

Her eyes brightened mischievously. "I declare, Mr. Ellison, you can be almost charming at times."

Jim felt heat rise on his neck and heard her chuckle.

"I guess I'll leave you in Miss Vanetta's hands, Joey," Jim said, standing. He stifled a grin, ignoring Joey's slightly panicked look. "When is Paulie letting you out of here?"

"He says not until tomorrow," Joey grumbled.

"Blair has a car. Maybe he'll bring me to pick you up."

"Blair?"

"You know—Sandburg," Jim said.

"Oh, I know his name," Joey said. "I'm just surprised you do." It was his turn to smirk, and Jim left hastily. He could hear their laughter as he walked down the hallway.

He went outside and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, at loose ends for the first time in a long time. His senses were behaving, and even if they weren't, he now knew how to control his sight well enough to get home safely.

It was such a liberating feeling that he felt dizzy. What to do? He could go anywhere he wanted.

He found himself wishing Blair were with him. They could go to the bookstore, maybe; he'd bet even dollars that Sandburg was a bookstore addict. And then maybe Blair would want to go to a café.

That's what Jim ended up doing. He bought a couple of books—one of them a pretty good spy novel—and sat down with a cup of coffee and a donut. He didn't try to muck with his senses. The space-out he'd fallen into the night before had convinced him not to fly solo just yet. But his senses didn't need fiddling, and sitting outside in the spring weather and sipping his coffee he felt more alive than he had for months.

_And I have Blair to thank for it._  
  


>>><<<

Blair's day seemed to drag endlessly. Spring fever had hit, and his students were acting as dull as tree stumps. Obviously their minds were on a subject more compelling than trading customs on the Kalahari.

And Blair was no better, because all he could think of was Jim and the trust he'd put in Blair—how he'd put his whole life into Blair's hands.

The implications for their future partnership thrilled him. But he found himself wishing Jim would trust him with even more—maybe even with that beautiful body of his. Although, Blair had no way of knowing whether Jim even liked guys that way, let alone if he would be interested in him.

But thinking about it sure made his office hours pass quickly, even if he ended up with an uncomfortable boner he had to hide under his desk.

At four o'clock on the dot he stuffed some materials in his backpack and headed out the door, locking it behind him. Usually at this point he would head up to the teacher's lounge and see if there was anyone around to hang with, but not today.

Jim was waiting for him.

Blair discovered he was almost out of gas, and so he was a little late turning onto McAllister. Joey's Kitchen already had a small line forming along the window front and around the alley. Folks always lined up early. Not that Joey ran out that often, but the servers did tend to spoon out bigger portions earlier in the shift. It was a phenomenon Blair had noted, part of him wondering if he was seeing survival of the fittest in microcosm—first come, biggest serving.

He parked in the alleyway by the back door and let himself in with a knock. Jim turned from the prepping table and gave him a purely happy grin.

Blair's breath left him in a little shock. The power of that smile—

"Hey, Chief. You're just in time." Jim turned back to the prep table. "Observe," he threw over his shoulder, "as your patient performs a death-defying feat."

Blair came around the side of the table just as Jim lifted a chopping knife and proceeded to decimate a yellow onion with deadly precision.

Then Jim put down the blade and spread his hands in showman's gesture. His smile disappeared abruptly. "A week ago I couldn't have stood within ten feet of a chopped onion to save my life," he explained earnestly.

Blair stared down at the mound of chopped onion on the cutting board. The extremity of Jim's prior situation hit him like a blow. Jim couldn't chop an onion. Jim had been reduced to a shaking mess just from smelling his friend Eddie across the room.

And now—

"That's terrific, Jim," Blair said. "Hey, wait a minute—we didn't work on smell!"

"I know!" Jim's grin reappeared, an even flash of white. "I've been 'sperimenting, Professor."

"Jim—"

"I promise, it was just a little. Just so I could get dinner prepped. And I have to tell you about what happened last night after you left..."

Blair joined Jim across the prep table and listened while Jim told him about his weird trance the night before. The description rang a bell.

"Jim, I think that's called a zone-out. It happens when you focus on one sense to the exclusion of all the others. We'll work on that tonight, I promise."

Jim nodded. He seemed unconcerned, relaxed, as he went about preparing dinner. The personality change was striking. Blair found himself wondering what Jim had been like before Peru. Had he been this easygoing, regular guy? A guy who would make jokes about horsemeat and tease Blair when he caught him stealing some carrots from the salad?

Sarah showed up at six o'clock. Blair did the introduction since Jim hadn't met her before. She was a fellow anthropology student, but her purpose in being there was just to volunteer. She had a mentally ill brother who was homeless for a while, and she'd tagged along with Blair the first time he came to the Kitchen.

Jim's face closed up when she arrived, his quiet, watchful mask back on. It saddened Blair a little seeing it happen, but at the same time he felt a guilty warmth when he realized what it meant. Jim had opened up for _him._

They served the crowd with their usual efficiency. A small disagreement broke out when they ran out of pudding, but Jim ducked into the freezer and came out with some ice cream for a substitute.

After dinner, clean up went quickly with three pairs of hands, and soon Sarah had taken off with their thanks, and Jim was leading Blair back downstairs to his little room.

Blair dropped his backpack on the desk and pulled out his notebook. He turned to find Jim standing in the middle of the room, a white paper bag in his hand. He was wearing an uncertain expression.

"Uh. I got you something." Jim lifted the bag. "I don't know if—well, you can exchange it if it's not your thing."

Blair stepped forward and took the bag. "Nice preamble. Now shut up and let me see my present."

Jim gave an amused snort as Blair opened the bag. He'd suspected it from the shape, and it was—a book, hardcover. _Bury Me Standing_ , by Isabel Fonseca.

"It's about the Gypsies of Bulgaria and Poland," Jim said. "They're kind of like the homeless, in a way—completely disenfranchised, searching for somewhere to be..." His voice dropped. "I dunno, it made me think about the paper you're working on. I thought maybe—"

"It's great. It's perfect." It was, too. The link would never have occurred to Blair, but it had to Jim. Blair raised his head and looked at him. Really _looked_ at him. "This is...you're amazing."

Jim flushed bright red and turned away, muttering something too low for Blair to hear.

"What's that?" Blair bounced on his toes. "Can't quite hear you, boss."

"I _said_ , maybe we should get to work, Sandburg. It's getting late." Jim's ears were still pink.

Blair grinned and re-bagged his book. He carefully set it in his pack before picking up his notebook.

"Okay. So, you were bad lab rat today, what with experimenting on yourself on your own, but I'm going to forgive you this once. Still, we'd better work on sense of smell next so you can chop onions any old time you want."

They got to work. First with the relaxation exercise, then with the sensory controls. They got through smell okay, but Jim had some real problems with sound.

"Come on," Blair said for what felt like the hundredth time. "It should be pretty easy. In this case the volume knob really _is_ a volume knob."

"But it's not behaving." Jim sounded frustrated. "In fact, it's worse now that I'm actually focusing on listening. I swear I can hear things that are happening _blocks_ away—"

Jim cut himself off and jolted upright, suddenly stiff as a ramrod. Then he bolted from the bed with blinding speed and was through the door before Blair could blink.

"Jim!" Blair ran after him, his blood thrumming with a sudden rush of adrenaline and fear. Jim had been moving with the deadly speed of a predator.

He found Jim standing stock still just outside in the alleyway, head tilted as if listening. When Blair came up behind him he turned. His eyes were fierce in the flood of light coming from the kitchen.

"Call 911," he said tensely. "Do it _now_. Something bad's going down on McAllister, maybe two blocks east."

Then Jim was just...gone.

Blair grabbed the phone by the door and dialed 911. The dispatcher must've thought he was crazy, since he didn't have anything concrete to report except that a friend had heard a dangerous disturbance on McAllister, two blocks east of Grant, and was investigating.

Blair gave his full name and dropped the phone before the dispatcher could respond.

Heart pounding, he went after Jim.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim was a block away, but he could hear Eddie's whimpering as if right in his ear. He also heard the dull thud of a boot meeting flesh, and fury pounded through Jim's veins, a fury he hadn't felt since Peru.

His people. Being _hurt_.

There were three of them standing over Eddie, one of them with long, reddish hair, and Jim's rage transmuted into unholy glee. It had to be them—Joey's attackers. He was going to fucking _kill_ those motherfuckers. They wouldn't know what hit them.

And they didn't. He approached near-silently, and time went into the stop-motion of a combat zone: the flicker of his arm catching beneath the chin of one, the sideways snap of the man's neck, not deadly, but debilitating. Already, Jim's left foot was swinging out in an arc to take out the weight-bearing leg of the second man, who was caught in mid-kick. The man's foot never reached its destination, and he hit the ground headfirst.

The third man had enough warning to drop into a crouch, and Jim mirrored his position. He heard the deadly whisper and snick of a blade clicking to, and saw the glitter of the knife in the man's hand. Jim shifted his stance for a knife fight.

His shift made the man pause, a beat of hesitation, and Jim exploited it, already exploding forward, arm raised to block the swing of the knife. Jim's fingers clenched, the knuckle of his middle finger pronged to connect with wicked force below the man's Adam's apple. Jim barely felt the bite of the blade on his arm. He was already drawing back his fist for another blow, but it wasn't necessary. The man dropped the knife with a gargled scream and fell to his knees clutching his throat.

Jim kicked the knife to the curb and quickly scanned the other attackers. They were both still on the ground, although the first man was struggling to rise to his feet. Jim planted one foot in his side, in the soft space just below the floating rib, and the man groaned and settled.

The whole fight, from beginning to end, had taken maybe twenty seconds.

"Jim."

Jim turned to see Sandburg staring at him, his eyes wide, face pale. He must've seen the whole thing.

Jim's stomach dropped. _So? Now he knows._ Jim had kept his covert ops training pretty much a secret. Joey knew, of course—Jim had told him just in case. There was only one way to safely awaken an ex-operative, and as a vet himself, Joey would know what to do.

Jim hadn't wanted Blair to know. For one thing, he needed the kid too much now. But that wasn't why Jim's guts were in a knot.

One of the men groaned and diverted Jim's attention. Still panting heavily, he tried to slow his breathing. Fooling the body into normalcy as quickly as possible was the best way to get over the adrenaline shock.

"Jim." Blair was closer now. But he still kept his distance.

"Help Eddie, Chief. Please."

Eddie had crawled away to huddle against a storefront. He was whispering to himself. "Stop it. Okay? Okay?"

Jim ached to check on his friend, but couldn't risk taking his eyes off the thugs. Instead, he wrapped one hand around the cut on his arm, pressing his shirt against the wound. It didn't feel too deep, but Jim still had too much adrenaline flowing through his system to know for sure. In fact, his sense of touch was way down. Something he should mention to Sandburg when this was all over.

Assuming Blair still wanted to work with him.

Finally the sound of sirens echoed in the distance, maybe a few minutes away. Jim continued to stand watch over the thugs, and listened to Blair's soothing voice as he tried to comfort Eddie. The soft tones comforted Jim as well, and his heart calmed.

A squad car slowed down the block and then sped up again, heading their way, lights flashing. Jim took two steps toward the curb but kept the thugs in his sight. One of the cops got out of the car, and Jim held up his hands.

"Please call an ambulance. We have four injured. I don't know how severe."

The officer leaned back into the car to say something to his partner and then walked over to Jim.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" His hand was resting on the butt of his sidearm.

"Yeah. I heard yelling on the street. I told my friend," Jim waved his hand at Sandburg, "to call 911, then I came over to check it out. I saw these three guys beating on Eddie. Eddie is a homeless vet. I know him from the soup kitchen where I work."

The officer—his nametag read P. Avery—looked over at the three attackers, two of whom were starting to sit up and take notice.

"So, how comes it they're all lying on the ground there?" Avery asked lazily.

"I, uh, stopped them."

Avery raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm a vet, too. Special Forces."

A low chuckle greeted that revelation.

"There's more. Detectives Brown and Rafe from Major Crime have been investigating murders in this area. I think these might be the same three guys that attacked Joey O'Brien, who owns the soup kitchen. Could you contact Detective Brown?"

That got him another raised eyebrow, and when Avery's partner came over, Avery handed him his cuffs and told him to secure the attackers before disappearing back into the squad car.

Confident the situation was under control, Jim finally let himself go over to Eddie. The poor guy was moaning and holding his stomach, his filthy head in Blair's lap.

"How're you doing, Eddie?" Jim asked quietly.

"Jim? Is that you? Okay. It hurts, Jim. I think I hurt myself bad."

"You're gonna be okay, Eddie." Jim crouched low, turning down the little knob on his sense of smell as he got close, and put his hand on Eddie's arm. "You're gonna be just fine. Blair and I will take care of you. And the ambulance will be coming soon. Okay? Just hang tight."

"Yes, sir," Eddie mumbled meekly.

Blair shot Jim a concerned look. Jim was worried, too. Eddie had never quite made it back from the war in his head, but usually he was aware he was stateside and out of the service. Maybe he had a concussion.

The ambulance came quickly for once, and Eddie was carried in first, then the man with the head injury, who still hadn't regained consciousness, followed by one of the cops. Jim spared about a split second's thought to wonder if the guy would ever wake up. And then he stopped thinking about it. Avery loaded the other two attackers into the back of the squad car.

The ambulance had just left when Brown pulled up in a dark blue sedan. Rafe was with him.

"Is it true? Are these the guys?" were the first words out of Rafe's mouth.

"I think they might be," Jim said cautiously. Brown was talking to Avery and looking into the back of the squad car. He came trotting over.

"That's Scalia in the back there." Brown's round face was creased in a grin, and he was practically rubbing his hands together. "Damned if you guys haven't caught those assholes in the act, Ellison. This is fantastic."

"I hope Eddie thinks it's worth it," Jim muttered, but softly.

"Jim." It was Sandburg, at his elbow. "Christ, Jim, you're bleeding."

Oh. Jim had forgotten all about it. He turned toward Brown. "One of the guys had a knife. I kicked it over the curb." Jim spotted it and pointed with his other hand. There was something odd about the knife that rang a bell, but Rafe was already crouching over with an evidence bag to scoop it up.

Blair muttered something under his breath about primitive throwbacks who bled to death without noticing.

"You think you'll need stitches?" Brown asked.

Jim tugged the dark material away from the wound so he could examine it. It was still bleeding, but the cut wasn't that deep. Butterfly bandages would do.

"Nah. I can patch it up easy."

Blair snorted.

"Great," Brown said, "'cause we'd really like you two to come down to the station and give statements."

"I have to lock up." Jesus, he'd left the Kitchen wide open.

"And I left the phone off the hook." Blair sounded a little dazed. Jim started to put his hand on the kid's arm, and then aborted the gesture at the strange look Blair threw him.

"All right," Brown said soothingly. "We'll follow you back to the place and then give you a ride into the precinct after you're patched up."

"Sounds good."

Back at the Kitchen, Jim went downstairs and changed into a clean, short-sleeved T-shirt, then pulled his first aid kit from the bathroom. The cut was long and shallow, along his triceps. He sat patiently while Blair cleaned and muttered and taped him up.

"I hear Joey's getting out of the hospital tomorrow," Brown said.

Jim nodded.

"If he's feeling up to it, maybe you can bring him by the station so he can do an identification."

"I don't have a car," Jim said apologetically. In fact, he didn't trust himself to drive with his senses being out of control. But that was another thing that might change for the better in the near future. No more buses and cabs.

"I've got a car," Blair said, looking up from Jim's arm. "In fact, we should take my car tonight. That way I can drop Jim back here afterward. And I'll bring Joey tomorrow if he's feeling well enough."

Blair finished wrapping his arm. He'd used a little too much gauze, but Jim kept his mouth shut. Rafe gave Blair directions to the station, and then Jim followed Blair to his car.

The kid walked fast—he was practically vibrating. Jim was a little worried for him. This probably was a hell of a lot more than he signed on for.

Hell, Jim was more than he signed on for. But Blair had been with him all the way. Steady as a rock. Not shying away from Eddie, who stank to high heaven and was crazier than a bedbug. No, Blair had taken Eddie into his lap and comforted the vet. Probably as much as he'd comforted Jim the night before.

The kid was gold.

The front desk sergeant directed them to the sixth floor, where they met up with the detectives and gave their statements separately—Jim to Brown and Blair to Rafe. Jim recited his recollection carefully, giving it straight like a military debriefing and including as much detail as he could. After the detectives had typed up their statements, they each read them and then signed the printed copies.

Jim made sure to get a hold of Blair's and read it quickly. Turned out the kid had an incredible memory for detail. And he'd seen everything, just as Jim had feared.

"Jim," Brown said as they all stood up to leave, "You should rethink what we talked about before."

"Huh?" Jim was looking at Blair, who was shaking Rafe's hand and making a joke.

"You seem like you're doing fine, healthwise. You really gonna let some headaches keep you in a soup kitchen when you have all the training to be a terrific cop?"

Jim stood, stunned, as Brown's words sank in.

A future. He'd forgotten he could have a future. Here he'd been getting excited about the possibility of sitting in cafés and driving cars, when his biggest dream of all languished in the corner gathering dust.

He could try to be a cop.

Brown's low, pleasant laugh pulled him out of his shock. "You look like you just got whacked with a two-by-four."

"I—it's just...I hadn't thought about it. I haven't _let_ myself think about it."

"Well, I think you'd better start thinking, then." Brown clapped him on his good arm.

Jim felt a smile bloom on his face. "I think you're right."

"Tell you what—when you come by with Joey, I'll introduce you to Captain Banks. All right?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Stunned, Jim barely felt his feet under him as he followed Blair down to the car.

>>><<<

Blair drove carefully, his hands still a little shaky from the crazy events of evening. Every so often he'd dart a glance over at Jim, who was sitting quietly in the passenger seat, obviously lost in thought.

Jim. He had taken those guys _out_. Jesus, Blair had never seen anyone _do_ anything like that in real life, like something out of a kung fu movie. Silent, vicious force, controlled by unbelievable reflexes. Like a machine.

Or like a trained killer.

His pet Sentinel was a trained killer, which shouldn't have surprised him at all, except it did. Blair was surprised all out of his mind. But the thing that had surprised him the most was the stark fear that had grabbed him when he'd seen Jim closing in on the guys, his helpless terror that Jim was about to get very, very dead.

Only Jim hadn't died. Jim had dispatched them with all the difficulty of a kindergarten teacher breaking up a playground tussle.

Afterward, when he'd seen that Jim was bleeding and seemingly unaware of it, Blair had felt anger creep up to replace his fear. Jim wasn't _allowed_ to get hurt. That wasn't in the rules.

But, hell, Blair should give up on the fucking rule book, because he had a feeling, once Jim got a handle on the problems that had been crippling him, that there'd be no stopping the guy. Not rules, and certainly not Blair's fear.

So he'd better get a grip on it, because that was why he was in the game—to make his Sentinel whole again. Whatever came afterward he'd just have to accept.

"Are you all right?" Jim's voice was soft, almost hesitant.

"What, me? Sure, man."

"It just occurred to me I hadn't checked. It wasn't like tonight was what you signed on for."

Funny. Jim's thoughts were apparently traveling along the same road as his.

"I signed on to help you, big guy. This counts as help in my book."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts. No wherefores or how comes, either. Okay? We're a team."

"Oh."

Blair looked over in surprise at the sheer volume of relief that Jim had packed into that one syllable. Jim was staring ahead, the passing streetlights flickering across his rigid profile.

"I mean it, Jim. I'm in it for the whole roller coaster ride. And the cotton candy. I love cotton candy." Blair laughed, a little edge in it. The night had gone from exciting to scary to purely strange.

But Jim laughed, too, and he seemed to relax in his seat.

"Hey, Chief. Can't you get this bucket to go any faster?"

>>><<<

After a quick breakfast the next morning, Jim went to the closet where Joey kept a spare set of clothes and threw them into a duffle bag. He also wrote up a note for Betty, requesting she stock up on some items for the dinner shift, and giving her the news that Joey would be going home that day.

It would be a while before Joey would be coming back to the Kitchen, though, so Jim collected the checkbook and the ledger from the office and tossed those in the bag as well.

At the hospital, Jim was surprised to find Vanetta already in attendance. She was trying to coax Joey into eating something.

"You're stuffing me like a goose, Van. Are you after my liver?" There was pure affection beneath Joey's gruff tone, and Jim had to hide a smile.

Van and Joey. Well, there were stranger couples. And Jim let himself think, for a moment, that he and Blair could make an even stranger one. The way Blair had talked about them being a team...Jim had had to bite his tongue from saying something incredibly stupid in that moment.

It had been two years since he'd allowed himself to be close to anyone. Another dream he could maybe take off the shelf and dust off? But not now. Not until he was whole and strong again.

"Van says there was a little bit of excitement on McAllister last night. Jim?"

"What's that, Joey?"

Joey gave him a look, and Jim replayed the tape in his head.

"Oh. Yeah, that's why I came by early. I wanted to tell you about that."

"She says you caught the guys. Says you kicked their asses six ways from Sunday." Joey coughed. "Well, in so many words, that is."

Startled, Jim looked at Vanetta. "How did you hear about it, Miss Van?"

"Never you mind," she said primly. "Question is, is it true?"

"Yes. At least one of them—that Stan guy, Joey. And one of them had long, reddish hair, to his shoulders. They were ganging up on Eddie; which reminds me, I have to go check on him—"

"He's just fine, Jimbo. My boy already looked in on him. They're gonna transfer him to the V.A. Hospital this afternoon. He has his own doctor there, and they want to keep him in the psych ward for a little while."

"Oh." Jim looked down at his hands, which were clenched tightly around the handle of the duffle. Eddie was just one step further into the hole than Jim had been a week ago. Jim had really thought he was heading there himself.

Until he met Blair.

"Jim." Joey sounded concerned. "He's gonna be fine. They know how to bring him out of it."

"Yeah." Jim cleared his throat. "Anyway, Blair and I went down to the station last night and gave our statements. Two of the guys are locked up. The third guy might still be in the hospital. I'm not sure."

"Sounds like you did a real number on them." There was dark satisfaction in Joey's voice.

Raising his head, Jim locked eyes with Joey for a long moment. Joey gave a faint nod.

Jim smiled. "If you're feeling up to it, you can put the nail in the coffin by going down to identify them in a lineup. We could swing by on the way to your house."

"I don't think Paulie will let you get away with that," Vanetta broke in. "You're supposed to go straight home and directly to bed."

"I'm a grown man, for gosh sake. I can make my own decisions."

Jim grinned when he heard Joey's careful language. "Well, make up your mind quick, because Sandburg will be here soon. In fact, we'd better get you dressed."

With that, Jim started pulling clothes out of the duffle. Vanetta gave Joey a quick peck on the cheek and left, her cheeks a little pink.

"So," Jim said, helping Joey out of his hospital gown and into his shirt. "You and Miss Van, is that it?"

Joey gave him a shove. "Get me my pants. And don't forget: I'm not too old to kick your ass."

"Sir, yes, sir," Jim murmured, grinning.

>>><<<

Blair coaxed his old Volvo started in the morning, then puttered over to County General and went up to Joey's room. He found Jim already there.

"Paulie wants me to sell," Joey was saying. "But I keep telling the boy this is my neighborhood, punks or no."

"Did someone offer to buy the Kitchen?" Blair asked as he came in. There was something tugging at the back of his mind.

"Howdy, Blair," Joey said. He was already dressed and perched on the end of his bed. Jim was kneeling at his feet and helping him with his shoes. "Yeah, some real estate hack called me a month ago. Miss Van, too, but she told him to get stuffed." Joey laughed.

"Someone is trying to buy both properties? That's interesting..."

Jim raised his head. "What? What is it, Blair?"

"Well, doesn't that seem like a weird coincidence? Joey and Miss V. tell the real estate broker to kiss off, then that old lady gets killed and Joey gets jumped. And there was Murray, too, the hit-and-run. And then there's Eddie, who's also connected to the Kitchen."

"Shit." Jim rubbed his hand over his hair. "Brown told me that Scalia has connections, like maybe he was hired and not just doing it for kicks."

"You think someone hired these guys to scare people out of the neighborhood?" Joey looked furious. "They don't know shit, do they?"

"Nope, they sure don't." Jim patted Joey's leg and rose to his feet. "Come on, let's find you some wheels and get you out of here. Are you signed out yet?"

"No. But I know this young doctor who owes me one..."

Paulie came by with a wheelchair soon after, and with very little fuss they got Joey downstairs and reclining in the back seat of the Volvo. Joey was all for going directly to the police station on his way home, and Blair could tell Jim couldn't wait to talk to Brown and relate their pet theory.

Jim looked good. His face had filled out a little, and his color was better. The lines around his eyes had disappeared. He didn't seem to be having any spikes. At the moment, he was leaning over the seat and talking animatedly to Joey, asking for more info about the calls from the real estate office.

They stopped at a light, and Jim turned his head and flashed Blair a quick grin. He looked alive. He looked really _alive_ , and it made Blair want to lean over and just plant one on him, give the guy a big sloppy kiss.

Which was _so_ wrong it didn't even bear thinking about. Jim was probably straight. And even if he wasn't, Jim needed him, depended on him, so any move would have to be his, because Blair couldn't stand it if he thought Jim was just reciprocating out of gratitude or obligation.

So Blair shut off that little train of thought and concentrated on the road.

The Cascade Police Department was a lot busier during the day, and while Jim helped Joey up to the sixth floor, Blair ran interference so he wouldn't be jostled. They bumped into Rafe when they were getting out of the elevator.

"Rafe, you remember Joey?" Jim said.

"Sure do. You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you, Mr. O'Brien."

"Call me Joey, kid."

Blair grinned. Seemed he wasn't the only kid around. Rafe led the way down the hall to Major Crime, where Brown was sitting at his desk and eating a sandwich as big as his head.

He stood quickly, wiping his mouth. "Mr. O'Brien. How are you feeling?"

"It's Joey, and I'm doing good. Doing even better now that I hear you might have caught the guys that did this."

Jim nudged Joey toward a chair. He sat down slowly while leaning hard on the desk.

"I surely believe we have, Joey," Brown said. "That's why you're here. I'll call down to the tank and have them brought up. The lineup room is on the fourth floor." He picked up his phone.

"In the meantime," Joey said, "how about I get a bite of that sandwich?"

Brown looked a little shocked, and Jim chuckled. "You want me to get you something, Joey? I can run out."

"Nah. I'm sure Van will have something waiting for me at home."

Jim's eyebrows went straight up, and Blair could see he was biting his tongue.

"Don't you start," Joey muttered.

When Brown got off the phone, Jim pulled him aside and started talking fast. Blair saw Brown pick up Jim's excitement, and soon he was back at his desk in front of the computer. Jim came back over to Blair.

"I think he buys our theory," he said softly in Blair's ear. "I can see what's on his screen."

Blair suppressed a shiver at having Jim's breath caressing his ear. "Joey and Van can't be the only ones who've been approached. Maybe someone has already succeeded in buying up some of the property in the neighborhood."

"That's what Brown's doing," Jim said, sounding pleased at Blair's logic. "He's looking up the titles for buildings in the area. Anything that's changed hands in the last couple of months."

This detective stuff was as exciting as hell. Blair turned his head to face Jim, who pulled back a little to give him room. Their eyes met, and Blair could practically smell the ozone. Pure electricity.

"You realize we might've solved this case for him," Blair said.

A weird look crossed Jim's face, half-sad, half-hopeful. Then he shook his head. "They'll still have to prove it. Find evidence of the connection."

"Or maybe they can get Stan or his pals to turn. You know, like in the cop shows. Get him in the interrogation room and have at him."

Jim shook his head. "I don't think it works that way in real life, Chief. If they came clean, these guys would be on the hook for two counts of first degree murder, not to mention the assaults."

"'On the hook'? _Who's_ been watching too many cop shows?"

Jim winced and turned away.

After all the buildup, the identification was pretty anticlimactic. Joey and the others stood behind the glass. In the other room, some guys shuffled in. It took Joey about a second and a half to identify the first man. On the second round, it took him a little longer, but he when he called out 'number four', a broad grin appeared on Brown's face.

"That's the ticket," he said. He offered his hand to Joey, who shook it with a smile. "The third guy is still in the hospital, so you'll have to do a photo ID." Brown lowered his voice, "I think we have a lead on the developer who might be behind all this. A company called Hobart Enterprises has purchased eight properties in the past ten months, most of them on McAllister, near Grant. Hobart is owned by a guy named Clarence Oakland. He's been suspected of racketeering but no one's ever pinned anything on him."

"Sounds like you maybe should have a little chat with Mr. Oakland."

"Oh, indeedy," Brown said. His grin had turned positively evil.

They all went back up to Major Crime, where Brown had Joey shuffle through a short stack of Polaroids. He identified the third man and then asked to use the restroom. Rafe offered to take him. While they were gone, Brown dropped back behind his desk and Blair and Jim moved in to read over his shoulder.

The information on Clarence Oakland was still up on the screen. It looked like the guy was a real bigwig, a major office building developer in Cascade. According to the newspaper profile, he had a lot of irons in the fire.

Just the kind of guy who might think it was worth a shortcut to get rid of some stragglers in a buy-out.

"We all ready to go?" Joey asked when he and Rafe came back in. Joey looked a little worn out.

"Yeah, let's get out of here. Jim?"

Jim snapped to, his eyes moving to Joey's face. He nodded. "We'd better get you home before Paulie catches wind of this."

Joey cackled. "You'd be smarter to be scared of Vanetta. That woman's gonna tan all our hides."

Jim and Blair wisely kept silent.

>>><<<

Jim felt guilty. Once they got Joey settled in, it became obvious how exhausted the man really was. He fell directly asleep on the couch, Vanetta clucking over him and shooing them away to the kitchen, where she made them sit down and eat a belated lunch.

"You know, as much as that man cooks down at the Kitchen, you'd think he'd have a decent cooking pot in his _own_ kitchen," Vanetta complained.

"I don't think he cooks much at home, Miss Van," Jim responded, graciously taking the time away from his single-minded consumption of the thick, greasy hamburger Vanetta had prepared. He looked up to find Blair eyeing him with a little disgust. Blair had opted for a grilled cheese. Jim wiped his mouth and gave him a grin.

Blair's eyes widened before he smiled back, slowly.

Jim swallowed hard and turned his attention back to Vanetta, who was grumbling about the lack of potholders.

"I guess someone needs to take him in hand," Jim offered, then bit his cheek.

Vanetta stopped mid-tirade and gave him a sharp glance.

Jim tried to look innocent. From Blair's muffled snort, it was apparent he hadn't been too successful.

"Detective Brown asked me if I wanted to watch Scalia's interrogation," Jim said, changing the subject hastily. "You wanna come, Chief?"

"Heck, yeah," Blair said.

"Great. You can give me a ride." Jim gave Blair his smuggest smile and took another bite of his burger.

"How about a beer, boys?" Vanetta had stopped her cleaning and was hovering by the fridge.

A beer. Jim hadn't had a beer in months. Should he risk it? He frowned, considering it, and caught Blair looking at him again with eyebrows raised.

"Sure," Jim said cautiously.

"Sounds good," Blair added. "Thanks."

The first sip exploded across Jim's taste buds like an assault from heaven—thick hops and that little tang at the back of his throat. He put down his bottle and just sat there, savoring the moment. After a while he realized Blair was staring at him again, the weirdest expression on his face.

"What?" Jim asked.

"You look..."

"Yeah?"

Blair shrugged. "Happy. I guess you look happy."

Jim felt a tickle of heat on his neck. _Happy._ "I guess I am," he said.

He only drank a couple more swallows, afraid to push it. He didn't want to lose his newly found control, and he had a feeling those little switches and knobs wouldn't work very well if he were pie-eyed.

After lunch, Vanetta and Blair cleaned up while Jim helped Joey transfer from the couch to his bed, Joey mumbling crankily and Jim holding back his laughter. Jim pulled the sheets up and tucked him in.

"Quit babying me," Joey snarled.

With a final tuck, Jim stopped and put his hand on Joey's shoulder over the quilt. "Hey, maybe I'm glad to see you safe at home, all right?"

Joey surprised him by grabbing his wrist. "'Cause of you, Jim. Thanks for that—I never said. And thanks for getting the guys."

Jim cleared his throat. "You saved my life about a hundred times, Joey, these past two years. Near as I can figure, I'm the one owes you."

"You're doing good now, though, huh? You look good, kiddo. You look better."

Jim nodded cautiously. "Blair's been helping me meditate. To get a handle on things," he said, a little embarrassed.

"That's good. He's a great guy." Joey yawned suddenly.

"Go to sleep, old man."

Jim couldn't make out Joey's mumbled reply. He gathered up Blair and thanked Vanetta, and then the two of them drove back to the Kitchen.

>>><<<

One bad thing about the soup kitchen was there weren't really any nights off. People needed to eat every day. And while Blair was glad there was a place like that for folks to go, he really wished Jim didn't have to start in with fixing dinner right away.

But it was fun working next to him. He discovered Jim had a pretty wicked sense of humor when he wasn't cranky from a headache or trying to hold onto the contents of his stomach. They got into a potato peeling contest that involved using elbows to keep the other guy from working effectively. It made the food prep take twice as long but also made it twice as fun.

Then Jim showed off his chopping skills. That was just amazing. The sharp knife flashed smooth and fast—incredibly fast, a dangerous blur—and the perfect, even chunks just appeared on the other side as if by magic. The intent focus on Jim's face was...beautiful. God, the man was perfect.

_Shut up, lizard brain. Wake up, higher brain functions._

__"How were things, today?" Blair asked. "Sight and hearing okay?"

"Everything was copacetic, Chief. Well, the hospital was a little tough, but I could handle it. And I think I almost spaced out on that first sip of beer." Jim grinned. "I haven't had a beer in months."

Blair swallowed back the lump in his throat. "Then you're doing better?"

"Yeah. Better doesn't describe it." Jim stopped cutting and put down the knife. He wiped his hands slowly with a dishtowel and then turned, putting his hands on Blair's shoulders. "I've got my life back, Chief. Thanks to you."

Blair forced himself to raise his eyes and meet Jim's. The usually cool blue looked as warm as the Mediterranean.

"That's good, Jim," Blair got out. "Real good."

Jim dropped his hands, looking a little surprised at himself. He turned back to the prep table. "So, what's on the docket for tonight?"

Blair stifled his immediate, raunchy answer to that question. "Taste, and then I thought we'd try testing your sight range. See what you can do."

Jim just nodded and kept chopping.

>>><<<

The next day was Sunday, but apparently detectives worked the weekends, because Brown called Jim to let him know when the questioning was taking place.

"Kid's already lawyered up, but we might be able to get something out of him anyway. I'm hoping you can listen in and let me know if anything doesn't ring true from the attack."

"No problem. Is it okay if Sandburg tags along?"

"No, that's great. See you at noon."

Visiting hours at the V.A. psych ward started at nine o'clock. Jim was there a little after, and patiently stood for the search and the instructions.

"Don't touch a patient if they become agitated. If the alarm sounds, hold up your visitor's badge and walk quickly to the exit," the orderly droned.

Jim just nodded at the right places, remembering a time when he was on the other side of the ward door, when he first returned Stateside. Culture-shock, they'd called it. Post-traumatic stress. The jungle had been in his head, and the gray walls were covered in vines.

They'd drugged him—kept him completely under for days and then kept him logy for months, and when he came out of it he'd forgotten the jungle, but his whole life had changed. His senses were heightened. Fortunately, the worst of the spiking didn't start until he'd already been released, or he'd still be in there, talking to the snakes hiding in the vines. Trapped and lost.

Like poor Eddie.

But Eddie seemed better today. His eyes were alert, and they'd forced a shower and a haircut on the poor guy. He looked small sitting in his hospital robe instead of his usual layers of clothing.

"How's it hanging, Eddie?"

"Hi, Jim! It's good, it's good. Is that for me?" A crafty look creased Eddie's face and he pointed to the box in Jim's hand.

"Well, I dunno. Are you the kind of guy who likes homemade fudge?"

Eddie smiled broadly. "Could be, could be."

Jim handed over the fudge and Eddie opened it. He offered Jim a piece first, then tore into it himself.

"Are they treating you okay, Eddie? 'Cause if they're not, all you have to do is say the word—"

"No, it's good. They're nice here. And they've put me on some new meds. Hey, Charlie," Eddie called out, "come on over here for a sec."

A big man in orderly whites walked over, a smile on his face.

"Charlie, this is Jim. He's my friend."

"Hey there, Jim. Eddie's told me a lot about you." They shook hands, Charlie's big hand swamping Jim's.

"Jim saved my life," Eddie said gravely. "But, more important, he brought me fudge."

Jim blinked and laughed.

Charlie joined in. "Now that's a true friend," he said, then put on a mock-sad expression. "But aren't I your friend, too, Eddie?"

"Hmm." Eddie seemed to give it deep thought before reluctantly holding out the box of fudge.

Charlie snagged a piece and popped the whole thing in his mouth. "Mmm."

Jim leaned over and tapped Eddie on the leg. "Eddie, I just wanted to let you know that Joey identified the guys—they're the same ones that attacked him. You get what I'm saying?"

"Yeah. Okay. Okay." Eddie suddenly looked nervous.

"I promise they're going to jail for a long time. And if it weren't for you, we might never have caught them. You were in the right place, and you held on, and yelled so I could hear you."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. So, you did good."

Eddie's eyes were clear as he held Jim's gaze. "We both did."

"Yeah, Eddie. We both did good."

>>><<<

"Scalia's lying," Jim muttered.

Captain Banks, who was sitting in on the questioning, shifted noisily behind him.

"Well, yeah, but what makes you say so, Ellison?"

Jim shrugged. He'd been introduced to the captain when he and Blair first came in, but hadn't had a chance to size up the man before the session started and his attention was diverted.

"His pulse," Jim said finally. Brown already knew about Jim's 'good vision', so no harm in explaining. "See that fat vein in his throat? When Rafe asked him about Oakland it gave a serious jump. He definitely recognized the name, whether he knows him or not."

"Punk's showing a lot of loyalty, considering what he's on the hook for," Banks said thoughtfully.

 _"On the hook,"_ Blair said almost soundlessly. Jim shot him a look.

"I wish Rafe would ask him if he's met him."

Rafe seemed to be a good interrogator, which surprised Jim, since the detective had always been so quiet around him. But, sure enough, Rafe circled back to the subject of Oakland after a couple of diversionary questions.

 _"I don't know if I believe you, Stan."_ Rafe's voice was tinny coming through the speaker, and for Jim there was an echo effect because he could also hear Rafe through the glass. _"Take a look at this picture. Have you met this man?"_

 _"Nope, never,"_ Scalia said sullenly.

"And that was the truth. I'm sure of it," Jim said to Blair.

"There must be a middleman, then," Blair said slowly. "Someone who works for Oakland—does his dirty work for him."

"Someone who pays the kid well. That leather jacket he was wearing the other night was no cheap cow-skin. And that knife—" Jim snapped his fingers. "That knife! I knew there was something about it bugging me."

Jim turned to Banks, who had a bemused expression on his face.

"Captain, that knife the kid tried to use on me. It wasn't a regular switchblade. It was a butterfly knife—I think it might've been a balisong. Is there any chance I could get another look at it?"

"I suppose," Banks said, nodding slowly. He reached for the phone and dialed. While he was talking, Jim turned back to the questioning.

He tried to focus on what they were saying, but he was suddenly conscious of Blair standing next to him, of the scent of fresh cotton flannel and clean musk. And a slightly sweet smell coming from his hair, maybe a honey-based shampoo. Jim took in a deep breath through his nose.

"Jim?"

Jim startled. "Yeah?"

Blair leaned closer, "You okay? You're not slipping into a zone-out?"

_Not yet, but if you lean any closer I might._

__"I'm fine, Chief," Jim said.

Rafe had moved on to ask Scalia about his friends. After a while, there was a knock at the door, and Banks stepped over to open it. He came back with a plastic bag and handed it to Jim.

"It's a balisong, all right," Jim said. "Can I take it out?"

"Sure." The bemused expression had returned to Banks' face.

Jim pulled out the weapon, flipping it open, the sound and motion bringing up old memories. It was a beautiful specimen, with a wavy blade and onyx handles.

"Butterfly knives are illegal to carry in Washington," Banks commented.

Running his fingers lightly over the handles, Jim felt a slight irregularity. He held it up to the light, tilting it until he could see the source—a strange, engraved symbol, possibly the artisan's signature.

"This is custom-made," Jim said, pointing to the insignia. "Expensive little toy for a street hood. It might even be a gift. A well-made Pananandata weapon like this isn't something you can just buy on the street."

Banks made an interested noise.

"What's Pan—whatever?" Blair asked.

"Pananandata. It's a martial art form from the Philippines that uses weapons like this one. If he's been training in Pananandata, well, there's probably not a lot of places in Cascade where you can learn."

"That's a lead. A couple of them." It was Banks, who had moved closer and was now standing by Jim's elbow. Jim bagged the knife and handed it back to Banks.

"Could be nothing."

"Could be something, too." Banks dropped the knife on the table beside him. "I'll have Rafe and Brown follow up on both, starting with the knife. Maybe we can locate the manufacturer, find out who bought it."

Jim nodded and turned back to the window. Scalia was slouched with his arms crossed, his lawyer looking unhappy.

"The other one rolled over on him pretty quickly," Banks said. "But this one's going to be tough to crack."

Jim nodded. The whole thing stank of something deeper. And loyalty was a tricky bitch—useful in your subordinates, dangerous in your enemies.

Rafe and Brown seemed to be wrapping it up. The lawyer picked up her briefcase and followed them out, a uniformed officer squeezing by to come in and handcuff Scalia.

Banks leaned with his back to the glass and pulled a cigar from his pocket. He stuck the end in his mouth and regarded Jim narrowly.

"Brown gave me the rundown on your involvement," he said to them both. "He said he trusted you with details of the case. I gave him a little hell about that, but he told me you'd been real helpful. That was the only reason I consented to having you two observe the questioning."

Jim leaned back in his chair, trying to show his unconcern. He could feel Blair's tension next to him.

"And now? You planning on cutting us out?" Blair sounded defensive.

"It depends." Banks pulled the cigar from his mouth and poked it in Jim's direction. "Brown told me you're ex-Special Forces."

Jim felt his shoulders stiffen.

"I just want to make sure you understand we don't have a war on, here. You're a civilian. You'd better act like one." He stuck the cigar back in his mouth.

Raising his palms, Jim said, "Hey, we're just trying to provide information. Obviously, we know the people and the neighborhood. And Sandburg was the one who made the connection between the real estate offer and Joey's beating. That wasn't something your detectives might've thought to ask."

"No," Banks admitted. "But we're still not sure there even is a connection."

"There is. There's someone working behind this. Someone responsible for beating an old lady to death. And unless you guys find out who, there's no connection with Scalia and his pals to that murder, or Murray's, for that matter."

Banks' teeth clenched on his cigar. "You trying to tell me how to do my job, Ellison?"

Jim knew Banks' type from his Army days, so he just grinned cockily and remained silent.

The tension broke, and Banks laughed ruefully. "Guess you are. Guess you are, at that. You sure took those punks out easily enough. Barely a scratch on you, according to the report. How's that vet doing—what's his name?"

"Eddie. He's doing fine. Thanks for asking."

"All right." Banks' glance flickered over to Blair. "And how about you, kid? You gonna stay out of trouble?"

"Not likely," Blair said, grinning. Jim suppressed a laugh.

Banks grumbled as he turned and picked up the evidence bag. "See you at the preliminary hearing. Prosecution always loves it when the victims show up, so please see if you can get Eddie to come."

"Yes, sir."

Banks' eyes widened momentarily at the address, and then he walked out.

Blair sighed explosively. "Man, he's a little scary."

"Naw. Nothing but a big pussycat."

Blair punched him in the arm. Grabbing the spot, Jim groaned theatrically before giving him a shove toward the door. He was amazed at how natural it felt to clown around with Blair. And how good.

They continued down the hallway, Blair offering to spring for lunch. As they approached the elevator they encountered a small crowd. Jim identified Brown and Rafe, and then there was a disturbance at the center, a ripple of movement, and a voice rang out.

"You son of a bitch! You piece of shit!" It was Scalia, yelling at Jim and struggling against the grip of the officer he had on each arm. "Rico's still in a coma, you shithead. I'm gonna—"

Brushing away Brown's warning hand, Jim stepped forward and leaned in, fixing Scalia with a glare.

"You're a little confused, punk," Jim said, keeping his voice mild. "See, _you're_ the one who dragged Rico into this shit. So it's your fault if he ends up wearing diapers the rest of his life." Jim bared his teeth. "You shouldn't have messed with my friends."

The elevator doors opened, and the two officers hustled the cursing Scalia inside.

Jim turned to see Brown grinning at him. "My, my."

"Twisted little fuck," Jim muttered.

"I have to agree with you there. But we'd better hope he doesn't get out, or he'll be coming after you."

"Let him come." Something in Jim's chest tightened, that hard place inside him the Army had loved so well. He felt a tug on his arm, but he was afraid to turn his head, knowing Blair was there. Jim didn't want him to see the expression on his face.

"C'mon, Jim. Let's take the stairs."

Jim let himself be nudged away. "See you, Brown."

"See you guys."

Blair was quiet on the walk to the car, an unusual state for him. Jim focused on the tightness in his chest, trying to warm it again, trying to find his humanity. But he didn't feel it.

"I know what you're thinking," Jim said, keeping his voice low. "I should—be better, have a little compassion for the man I injured—"

"I forgot all about him," Blair broke in suddenly. "I forgot he was hurt."

"I didn't. I just—I didn't care." Jim let the words leave him in a rush, "I can tell that's wrong, but on the inside I just can't feel it. He hurt Joey. He hurt Eddie. Those other two people—we don't know for sure, but he might've helped murder them. And I've lost too many good people, Blair. I lost them. I couldn't save them, but this time I could _do_ something, so I did. And I don't regret it. So, I can't find the compassion I should have." Jim took a deep breath. "And now you know that about me."

Blair jingled the car keys in his hand. He was staring down to the side. "Jim, I'm not your confessor or whatever. I'm not your conscience."

"Of course not. But I need—" _I need you to like me._

Maybe Blair heard it, because he raised his head. The blue of his eyes was deeper than Jim remembered, as if something terrible had darkened them, and Jim felt a surge of guilt.

But in the next moment Jim realized Sandburg was almost smiling. Not quite, but almost. He'd misread Blair's expression. What Jim saw now was even more terrifying.

"Blair."

"That's twice you've called me that," Blair said, whispering.

Jim shook his head, disbelieving. Time seemed to drag. Jim became aware of a new sound, rhythmic, fast, familiar—a heartbeat, not his own.

He was hearing Blair's heartbeat.

The realization was disturbing enough to pull him back. He raised his eyes and saw Blair almost visibly shake himself.

"Here," Blair said, nudging him. Jim put out his hand automatically, and felt the cold press of Blair's keys.

"What—?"

"It's your turn to drive." Blair's eyes were locked on his as if trying to convey a message.

Jim was both terrified and elated to discover he read it loud and clear.


	4. Chapter 4

Blair slouched in the passenger seat, trying to convince himself that he was deluded, that he hadn't looked into Jim's face and seen something beyond affection there in those angular features, in the anxious pull of Jim's eyes.

But Blair's heart just went on with believing in spite of his brain. Because he'd _felt_ it. For a moment there, he could read Jim like a book, like a favorite old volume he'd read a hundred times. Jim cared about him. More—Jim was worried, really worried, about what Blair thought of him, and had been downright scared he might be disappointed in him.

Blair wasn't. No way he could be. He couldn't understand how Jim had managed to survive the things he had and still continue to care so damned much about the people around him—the good people who'd suffered hard times, if not the bad ones who'd chosen the wrong path.

Naomi would have a hissy, but Blair found himself agreeing with that particular dichotomy.

"This is great," Jim said as he turned a corner. "I mean, your car is a junk heap," he shot Blair a wicked look, "but driving—boy, I really missed driving."

"Can't afford a junk heap of your own?" Blair cracked.

"No, I just couldn't trust myself to drive." Jim's voice was distracted. "Worried about the vision thing. But it's all under control now. I suppose I could get a car. A truck, I think, for doing the grocery run. Betty will be glad to have me take that on."

Blair swallowed hard. It seemed there was no end to the things Jim had given up because of his senses. "I haven't met Betty yet."

"You will. She'll be at Joey's welcome back bash. I assume you're coming?"

"Oh, I'll be there. I'm going to make my world famous guacamole."

"World famous, huh?"

"Might be a little spicy for you, though."

"Oh, right." Jim pulled up at the Kitchen and turned his head. "This was great. Thanks for letting me drive, Chief."

"No problem. So..."

"So." Jim met his eyes for a second then looked away. "Will I see you tonight?"

"Yeah, man." Of course, Blair had other things to do. Laundry piling up, papers to grade. And he had notes to compile from various interviews he'd done with the folks at the Kitchen. Not to mention he needed to schedule some interviews at the shelter on Bryant Street.

"I'll be back by six," he said.

"Good. That's good." Jim smiled out the window.

"Great."

>>><<<

Sandburg did come back, which surprised Jim, but didn't. It surprised Jim that in spite of his strangeness, in spite of the burden he placed on Sandburg by being such a wimp about his senses, in spite of the hardness inside him, the unkind part of his soul he'd revealed, that _anyone_ would come back. But it didn't surprise him that Blair did, because Blair was...Blair. The kid was gold, and that was all there was to it.

What surprised Jim even more, though, was Blair _kept_ coming back again and again over the next few weeks, drilling Jim in exercises and meditations, testing his ranges to get what he called a baseline of Jim's abilities. Sandburg was very serious about the senses. He was treating them like a skill Jim had.

And, weirdly enough, Jim started thinking of them that way, too, now that they were no longer making his life a constant misery.

He still had spikes, as Sandburg called them, and reactions to foods or chemicals that seemed unavoidable, and he still had times when he could barely lift his head for the leaden pain, but those days were further and further between.

And he was discovering something new every day, finding endless ways to use the senses. Even for something stupid like smelling a box of cereal to pick the best one. And, boy, did he get razzed by Sandburg about that. Apparently using his senses for sniffing out Crunchberries was an insult to the ancient Sentinel tradition.

But it was Blair's fault for getting him to enjoy having them, using them. Jim could've kissed him for that, if kissing weren't entirely off the agenda.

Ix-nay on kissing the guy.

It wasn't that Jim was uncertain of his reception. Jim could feel the subtle pressure between them every time they were together. He could tell Blair was waiting for him to make the first move, but Jim was too afraid to upset the _status quo._ He barely had his feet back under him. He already _needed_ Sandburg in a way he'd never needed anyone before, too much to risk Blair dumping him because Jim had fucked up.

But he had to admit, every time they brushed elbows, or Blair turned those deep blue eyes on him and praised him for some new trick he'd mastered, that there was definitely a tempting heat between them. And wasn't that a kick? Young, beautiful guy like that, interested in an old, burned-out vet like Jim?

There had to be something wrong with the kid.

But the idea of it—of them—continued to percolate on the back burner of Jim's mind.

Joey was recovering well, and together he, Sandburg and Jim attended Scalia's preliminary hearing. Webster, the redhead, had already pled guilty on two counts of assault. The third thug, Daley, was still in the hospital. He'd regained consciousness, but was brain-damaged.

Jim tried to feel guilty and failed.

The judge at the hearing was an older, harsh-looking woman, her pale face stark against the black robes. Scalia slouched in through the door as if he owned the place, and Jim looked away, scanning the room, afraid if he looked at Scalia he would lose control of his temper.

The courtroom was about half-full. Most of the people had that dim, weary loser aspect, family members of people coming up for hearings. Jim's eye caught on a tall, brown-haired man who seemed out of place. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt and tie. Something about him made Jim's nose twitch.

The man turned his head and met Jim's eyes with a cold, gray stare.

The judge's gavel sounded, and Jim turned forward again.

The proceedings were dull, full of kibitzing from the lawyers and stern reprimands from the judge. Joey shifted impatiently next to Jim. Blair, on the other hand, seemed riveted. But then, Blair found something interesting in almost everything.

Crazy kid.

Scalia was remanded back to prison to await trial with no bail set. Jim could _feel_ Blair's grin of triumph, as if on a special wavelength. It was scary how in tune Jim was with Sandburg's emotions. With his _heartbeat_ , for crying out loud.

They all shuffled to the end of the bench and started filing down the central aisle. Jim was directly behind the brown-haired man, and his nostrils flared again, pulling in, processing...hair gel, deodorant, a subtle, expensive cologne-smell, and underneath, a cold, damp scent, like mud—no, not mud, but the slate taste of cement.

Brown joined them as they hit the tiled corridor outside the courtroom. Jim thought, _what the hell_ , and nudged him with an elbow, saying, "Take a look at that guy. He was there for Scalia's hearing." The man was now standing by the bank of payphones near the entrance.

"Yeah? So?"

"Well, this is gonna sound weird, but he...he smelled like cement," Jim got out in a rush. He could feel heat on his neck. _Circus freak_ , a voice in his head sneered.

"Cement, huh?" Brown seemed to take it in stride. "Like he works in construction? He doesn't look it."

No, the suit didn't fit a laborer. And that cologne definitely wasn't working-class.

"Isn't it great?" Blair said suddenly at his side, "No bail!"

"Yeah! Great news, huh? Not that you can't take care of yourself," Brown said hastily to Jim, obviously afraid of offending him.

"No reason I should have to, though, if the system does it right."

"Yup. And I've got news: we got some pretty interesting results from forensics on that knife. They say that particular artist's work is only available via special import from the Philippines. Only a few suppliers out here, and we've obtained customer lists from them. Oakland isn't on it, though." Brown's face fell.

"What about the martial arts studios?"

"Same deal. There are three gyms here that teach Panan-andata," Brown stumbled over the word, "that we know of. No connection with Oakland. But—"

"Did you guys cross-check the customer list against the gyms?" Blair asked.

"Smart kid," Brown said approvingly. "Yes, indeed. There was one match. A Mr. Brion Regan bought an onyx balisong, custom import. He's also half-owner of Swann Martial Arts Club, where they teach mellower stuff like Jiu-Jitsu and kick-boxing, along with—"

"Pananandata." Blair had no trouble with the Filipino word this time.

"Got it in one."

"So, the punk has a mentor," Jim said thoughtfully.

He looked back at the phone bank, but the gray-eyed man was gone.

>>><<<

Plans for the party heated up. Vanetta was in charge, and she kept bossing Blair around, getting him to take notes for the menu and the guest list, making him offer up his car for supply runs.

Blair didn't mind. He was spending more time at the Kitchen now than he was at the university. He didn't mind that, either, and should maybe have stopped to think about what that meant—he was definitely letting some things slide, such as a piece he'd wanted to write about the new pre-Colombian exhibit that was arriving in town.

But he was where he wanted to be—working with Jim, taking piles of notes on his Sentinel's ever-increasing abilities. The night before, Jim had actually piggybacked his sense of vision on his hearing and described perfectly who was in the dining room and exactly where they were all sitting. Just amazing.

It was all worth the incredible frustration Blair felt being so close to Jim, touching him in their exercises or when Jim went into a zone, seeing Jim just out of the shower, his robe too small to close across his smooth, muscular chest—

Time-out. Blair needed a time-out.

Jim looked healthy. Jim looked good, that was the thing. And he was relaxed around Blair in a way he wasn't with other people. So Blair would just give it time, even though patience was _not_ his number one personality trait.

Maybe, after a while, Jim would finally realize it was okay to have good things in his life, like driving a car, chopping onions, and having sex with Blair.

Blair knew he'd make sure Jim wouldn't regret it.

The day of the party was the first day of summer break, but Blair had to go to Rainier anyway to turn in his homeless article for review. He'd learned some surprising things working on it—that the staff of Bryant Street and other city shelters had a very classist approach and considered many of their clients to be 'beneath' them, that the homeless themselves seemed to accept it meekly, even reinforcing the social hierarchy with their behaviors.

Joey's Kitchen was a direct contradiction of that trend. In fact, Eddie, once he'd gotten out of the V.A. Hospital, had asked if he could help out at the Kitchen, and was now a quasi staff member. His mental health was miles improved; weirdly enough, the attack had benefited him, because once he was back in the hospital, his psychiatrist was able to try him on a new medication that seemed to have stabilized his condition.

Eddie was just one example. The way Joey and Vanetta worked within the community, the kids being tutored at Miss Van's house, the parents who then had time to seek out work and a better living situation, all of it contributed to a better model than the city-run system. The difference ended up being the focus of Blair's thesis.

And looking at them now—Eddie, Jim, and Vanetta, all crowded into Blair's tiny Volvo with piles of party groceries in the back—Blair couldn't imagine a similar scenario playing out at one of the shelters.

Blair pulled up in front of the Kitchen. "Ahh, the pimp spot," he said with satisfaction.

"What's that?" Jim had a half-smile on his face.

"You know—best parking place, right in front. The pimp spot."

Jim shook his head and cuffed him on the arm. "Come on, Shaft, let's go have a party."

>>><<<

Jim, loaded to the gills with grocery bags, had to ask Sandburg to reach into his pocket for the keys. Now that was an interesting sensation for the notebook—Blair's deft fingers squirming inside his pants near his groin...

Blair got the door open, and Jim went through first, on a beeline for the kitchen to put down his bags. And hide his sudden flush of arousal.

But all other thoughts flew out the window when an elusive scent hit his nose. Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, a massive spike hit him, centered on smell. The kitchen was suddenly crowded with odors, maxing out his intake.

Jim stumbled to the prep table and dropped the bags, then drew his fingernail harshly along his arm just like Blair had trained him. Touch was engaged, sharply, and the spiking stopped. He took a tentative sniff.

This time he identified the scent of cologne, familiar from the courtroom. The gray-eyed man. Jim's back went stiff—he could actually feel his hackles rising. Under the cologne was another smell he hadn't thought he'd ever have to smell again—C-4. Plastic explosives. He felt like he was dreaming as he skirted the table and, following the scent trail to the stove, peered behind it—

He turned and sped to the dining room in a pure, panicked rush and hauled Blair to face him. Blair gave him a startled look that turned to careful concern.

"Jim. Stop. Breathe."

 _Stupid. We're so stupid. All four witnesses in one convenient location._  
  
"Get them out," Jim said in a harsh whisper. "Get everybody out. Take them through the back door as quietly as you can. Lead them down the alley _away_ from McAllister. Then call 911 and tell them there's a bomb. It's on a wireless trigger."

He'd thought Blair's eyes couldn't get any wider, but they did.

"Call Joey and tell him to stay away from here." Jim took a breath. "Do it now, Chief, protect them—" he said urgently, and then he clasped Sandburg's wrist, holding it tightly—too tightly, because he could feel the bones shifting under his grip, but Blair stood firm, his eyes locked on Jim's. "Take care of yourself, Blair," Jim pleaded. "Be safe."

"But, Jim, what are you going to—?"

"No time. Get them out. Now!"

Trusting Blair to handle things, Jim sped out the kitchen door and then down the alleyway before circling around the long block to approach again from the east. Every sense was on total, hair-trigger alert. He stood just around the corner scanning carefully up and down the street, his ears, eyes, and nose all in play. He was blanketed by input, and put one hand on the brick wall to ground himself.

He finally zoomed on a shadowed lump in the driver's seat of a nondescript sedan parked halfway down the block and across the street, but just then his ears picked up the most unwelcome sound in the world—Joey's car giving its usual asthmatic gasp as the engine shut down. Joey was already _there_. As soon as he walked inside the Kitchen, the bomber was sure to blow the place.

Jim started running down the block. He was too far. Too far. Joey was already out of the car and moving toward the front door—

—and suddenly Blair appeared from the alleyway, saying something in a low voice. He had his arm casually wrapped around Joey's shoulders, halting him.

The delay gave Jim just enough time to reach the driver's side of sedan. He took a split second to identify a square device in the man's hand, and then—no time, no time—Jim hopped and _kicked_ , punching out with his boot and smashing through the window before dropping back to his feet.

The man had raised his arms automatically to cover his face, and Jim reached in and plucked the device from him with his left hand, his right reaching through to grab the man's collar, his tie making a convenient handle for Jim to haul him halfway out the window and snarl in his face, "You son of a bitch!"

The gray-eyed man stared up dazedly, and Jim shook him once, then pulled him out of the car to dump him face down on the ground. He then put his boot on the back of the guy's neck.

"Move, and you're dead."

Sandburg ran up, wild-eyed, with Joey trailing more slowly behind.

"You really shouldn't kill him, Jim," Blair said, sounding eerily reasonable despite being out of breath. "We should maybe let the cops have a little talk with him, first."

The man closed his eyes.

>>><<<

The bomb squad arrived first. Jim carefully handed over the remote detonator and told them where to find the bomb. Brown showed up soon afterward—either Blair had told the dispatcher to contact him, or the detective was tuned in to any occurrences in the neighborhood.

"Oh, Rafe is gonna be so pissed he missed this," Brown said to Jim. "His kid is having a Chuck E. Cheese birthday." The detective bent down and cuffed the bomber.

"Well, Mr. Regan. Fancy meeting you here," Brown said as he lifted him to his feet and started patting him down. "Mr. Regan here was apparently a demolitions expert at Hobart before he moved up in the organization."

"You don't say," Jim said through bared teeth, with an effort keeping it from turning into a growl.

Brown read Regan his rights, then pulled him over to the cluster of squad cars blocking the street and handed him to a uniformed officer. Then they all trudged back to the Kitchen. At one point, unaware he was doing it, Jim had slung an arm over Blair's shoulder. He dropped it as they approached the front door.

Captain Banks was standing there in a long brown overcoat, and he greeted them all with a flick of his lit cigar. "You want to tell me what's going on here, Henri?"

"Well, sir, it seems, from appearances only, mind you, that Mr. Regan decided having all four witnesses in one location was too good an opportunity to pass up."

Jim looked over Brown's shoulder into the window and hissed. "Joey's in there!"

"It's all right," Banks said. "Bomb Squad has removed the device and done a sweep with the dogs."

"Maybe you should do your own sweep," Blair said under his breath, and Jim nodded.

"Sir, I'd like to look in on Joey. This was a lot of excitement for his first day back."

"Just don't go anywhere, Ellison. I want to hear the story straight from your lips."

It was such a familiar attitude—Jim's superiors had always wanted their own, separate debriefing—that Jim had to suppress a grin. He liked this Banks.

"Yes, sir. Not going anywhere."

Blair raised his hand to push open the door, and Jim noticed a bruise on his wrist. With a pang of guilt, Jim realized he'd been the one to put it there. And then he remembered how Blair had disregarded his instructions.

"I thought I told you to keep out of sight," Jim said.

Blair gave him an impatient look. "I heard Joey pull up. No way was I gonna let him walk in there, Jim."

"No," Jim said slowly. "You're right. You did good, Chief. I guess I—it bothers me to think how you could've been killed. If Regan had set off the bomb, the whole front of the store might've blown out on you."

"And Joey," Blair said quietly.

"Yeah. But if you hadn't stopped him, I wouldn't have had time to reach Regan. He thought we were all still inside. He was ready to do it—" The nearness of the thing struck Jim hard then, and he found the closest bench and sat down heavily. Joey and Vanetta came over, both frowning with concern. He felt Blair's comforting warmth behind him. In the kitchen, he could hear Betty teasing Eddie.

All of them. Everyone he cared about in the world was in this small space. And he might've lost it all today. They might all be dead or terribly injured, his home destroyed.

A fine trembling began to take him, making his hands shake, and he clenched them together under the table.

"Jim? You okay, pal?" Joey's hand was on his shoulder.

"Adrenaline reaction," he muttered.

Eddie walked in, a cup in his hand. "I made you some of that stinky tea you like, Jim."

Jim heard Blair chuckle behind him and laughed a little himself. "Thanks, Eddie. You're tops." He took the tea and sipped it while the rest of the gang continued, incredibly, with the party preparations.

"Looks like we have more to celebrate than we expected," Vanetta said, shrugging when Jim questioned her.

Soon Captain Banks came in with Brown, who pulled Blair aside to get his statement. Banks nodded down at Jim.

"Is there someplace we can go to talk privately?"

Jim nodded. "I have a space downstairs." He stood and showed the way.

As he opened the door to his room, it occurred to Jim how different it looked now since Blair had come into his life. The heavy curtains were pulled back except in the mornings before Jim woke up. His desk was now covered with Blair's books and notes. The place looked less like a jail cell and more like a dorm room. Jim smiled.

"Please, have a seat."

He took the edge of the bed, and Banks pulled up the armchair to sit across from him.

"I checked you out," he said bluntly. "You kept popping up, and I don't like unknowns."

"I understand," Jim said softly.

"Read that _News_ article about you, and your academy records came up in a search. This where you've been hiding since then?"

"Hiding is a good word for it," Jim said slowly. "Something happened to me in Peru. When I left the service I had...weird medical problems. I made it through the academy okay, but then it got worse. Headaches, nausea—"

"You seem okay now," Banks said.

"Because of Sandburg." Jim took a deep breath. This would all come out anyway when he tried to explain what had happened today. Might as well get it over with. "Sandburg figured it out. What I have isn't a medical condition. It's a genetic thing. My senses—sight, hearing, smell, all of it—are enhanced. I can see stuff other people don't, hear things from further away. It gets to be overwhelming, which was causing the sickness. Sandburg helped me figure out how to control it, how to use it."

Banks was frowning, but he hadn't yet called for the guys in the white coats, so Jim continued.

"That's what happened today. When I came into the kitchen, I smelled the guy's cologne, the guy from Scalia's hearing. Then I smelled the C-4, and followed it to the bomb. There was no way we would've known, otherwise. Same thing with Eddie. I heard them working him over from two blocks away." Jim stopped and set his jaw, waiting for Banks' reaction.

Banks rubbed his hand over his face with a sigh. "You know this is nuts, serious crazy talk, Ellison."

"You have a son," Jim said quietly. "Unless you like working on model airplanes, because I smell—" Jim sniffed. "Plane glue, model plastic, paint. Also, you had an omelet for breakfast with green peppers and sausage, and some flavored coffee. Hazelnut. You store your long coat in a cedar-lined closet."

Eyes narrowed, Banks reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigar.

Jim nodded toward it, "You use a butane lighter. You sprayed some on your hand when you refilled it recently."

Banks dropped his cigar, then sighed and bent to pick it up. "Crazy black magic stuff."

"It's not magic," Jim protested. "This is the natural world. Smells stick around. Sound travels further than you think. For example," Jim cocked his head, "Brown just asked Sandburg where we got off to. He should be coming down here soon."

"Then we should talk fast," Banks said, seeming to recover from his shock. "I can't have you putting it in the report that you smelled the C-4."

"Why not? It's the truth."

"We'll just have to put down that you accidentally saw the bomb," Banks said, ignoring him.

"Behind the stove?"

"Yeah, behind the stove." Banks' voice was flat. "Fortunate, the way you accidentally dropped something back there."

"Yes, sir."

Banks' eyes sharpened at that. "You know, we could use someone like you, Jim. Now that you have the problem under control—"

"With Sandburg's help," Jim put in. "It's not totally under control. Sometimes I space out, I'm listening so hard or whatever, and he pulls me out of it. He helps me focus and filter the input, too."

"So. You're a team."

_"No buts. No wherefores or how comes, either. Okay? We're a team."_

"Yeah. We're a team. Except, he's a student at the university. I can't ask him to change his whole life—"

"Seems to me every time I've seen you he's been there stuck like glue." Banks grinned. "Sometimes, being a cop isn't something you choose. It chooses _you_."

"Maybe," Jim said doubtfully.

Banks slapped his leg. "Anyway, think about it. You've done the academy training, and I could pull you right into Major Crime if I wanted to. They give me a pretty free rein with hiring. Our closure rate is that good. I could pair you up with a senior partner to begin with, because you need on-the-street training."

There was a knock at the door, and Brown stuck his head in.

"Uh, sir? I'd like to get Jim's statement."

"He's all yours." Banks rose, his head close to brushing the low ceiling. "Give it some thought, Ellison."

"I will, sir."

>>><<<

Blair was having a terrific time. The rest of the cops were gone by the time the party kicked off, but Brown stuck around and helped chip away at the spread the crew had prepared. Craig had shown up carrying a massive cake with _Welcome Back, Joey_ inscribed on top.

"Miss Van said you liked chocolate," Craig said. "So this is nothing but three layers of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting in between."

"Be-yootiful," Joey crowed.

Paulie and Helen were there, and most of the neighborhood showed up through the course of the evening. Everyone had a clap on the back for Joey, and warm smiles for Jim, who stood a couple of minutes of it before retreating to the kitchen. As far as Blair could tell, he spent the rest of the evening there washing dishes or sending more food out.

It was late by the time the extra guests were gone and the tired crew gathered at the main table. There were only scraps left.

"Some party," Joey said. He had a huge grin on his face, the same one he'd been sporting all evening.

"I didn't get any cake," Jim said mournfully.

Blair and Vanetta shared a look, and then Vanetta reached behind her big handbag and pulled out a square of chocolate cake on a paper plate. She placed it in front of Jim and stuck a plastic fork into it with a flourish.

"Blair made me save you a piece," she explained.

Jim raised his eyes from the plate and gave Blair a soulful look. "Chief, have I ever told you that I loved you?"

Blair laughed with the rest of them, but inside his heart gave a funny twinge. "Not since I brought you that stinky tea, Jim."

"Well, I do," Jim said fervently. "No greater friend hath a man than one who will save him cake."

Van soon started making scolding noises about the hour, and Joey grumbled but hoisted himself up. "C'mon Eddie. We're for home."

"But first you'll walk a lady to her door, I hope?" Van said, tucking her hand under Joey's arm. They started to stroll out.

"You been staying with Joey, Eddie?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, Jim. He's been real good to me. Says we gotta stick together, watch each other's backs."

"That's good." Jim smiled and clapped Eddie on the shoulder.

Eddie smiled and turned to Blair. "Thanks for-for earlier. Okay. I was scared for a little when you made us leave. But it was all good." Eddie suddenly grabbed him in a hug.

Blair hugged back and felt his throat close up. Eddie had been frantic when Blair had pushed him out into the alley. The threat of a bomb had apparently almost triggered a flashback. Blair ended up using the same technique he used on Jim when he was having a spike, and had talked Eddie calm again.

"No problem, Eddie. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. Bye. Bye, Big Jim."

"Eddie, get your ass in gear," Joey called from the door, and Eddie hurried out.

"Big Jim?" Blair said, turning.

Jim pinked a little. "I don't know why he calls me that," he mumbled.

Blair held back a totally inappropriate comment. "How's your head?" he asked, changing the subject.

"It's good. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I had a spike. Smell. Right before this all started."

"Yeah? Bad?"

"Nope. I used the trick you taught me." Jim grinned, but it faded quickly. "That's how I managed to get it together and smell the explosive. Otherwise, Jesus, who knows—"

"Horseshoes and hand-grenades, Jim."

Jim's eyes widened. "My old sergeant used to say that. 'Close only counts...'"

"We're all okay, Jim. Thanks to you."

"And you, Chief."

Blair shrugged. "And Brown says now they have a lever to use to get Oakland, maybe. Regan won't want to go down alone."

"I know. It made me think about..." Jim stopped and rubbed his hand over his short hair.

"About...?"

"Well. I thought, now that we've got it all straightened out, my senses and everything, I might try...I mean, before all this went bad, I went to the police academy, took the abbreviated course, did all the paperwork, and then I had to give it up. But now—"

Blair pushed. "But now?"

"I'm starting to think I could do it—be a cop."

He said it like a kid afraid to say a wish out loud or it wouldn't come true.

"No reason why not," Blair said carefully.

Jim exhaled loudly, almost like a sigh.

"Of course, you'd need a partner. Someone crazy enough to ride along with you and make sure you didn't zone out or anything."

"Yeah?" Again, with the one syllable answer that Jim did so well, putting so much in there. Hope, and longing, and more. So much more.

"Oh, yeah."

Jim considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "But you're a student, Sandburg."

Blair shook his head. "I've been a lot of things, Jim. But no matter what, I always follow the feeling, this pull I get—I've learned to recognize it. It's like life saying 'do this thing', and I listen and do it, and it's never steered me wrong. I find a place to be, that needs me, and I stick with it.

"And, anyway, I could still work on my dissertation on the side. Hell, no matter what I'm doing I'm always still learning."

Jim was silent for a while, and then he said softly, "Well, I'd like that—the two of us covering each other's backs. Captain Banks implied he might be willing to find a couple of slots for us. Can you see it? You and me?"

"Yeah, I can see it, Jim." Blair stopped, his throat dry, afraid to say more.

But Jim tilted his head attentively, and then he smiled, an odd smile, and took a step closer. "Sometimes I can hear your heartbeat, Chief. Did I tell you that?"

"No." Blair cleared his throat. "That's amazing, Jim. Really, I should stop being surprised at your abilities, because you always—"

Jim's hand closed on his shoulder, and then he nodded. "Right then, just there, it did it again."

"Did what?" Blair whispered. Jim's hand was so warm.

"Beat funny, like a little kick."

"Oh, yeah?" All the air had been sucked from the room when Blair wasn't looking.

"You and me," Jim said again, his voice low, and his hand had moved to Blair's neck—Blair wasn't sure when, because he was focusing on the air problem.

But Jim pulled away a little. "I had a friend in the Army," he said, sounding a little distant. "My buddy Gordo. It was me and him a lot of times, getting into bad spots. We were tight." As if in demonstration, Jim squeezed him gently. His voice dropped. "We started...being together, you know?"

Blair nodded mutely.

"And I started to freak a little, worried about losing him, I guess. Somehow it suddenly seemed unacceptable to be risking him like that. So, I broke it off. I broke us off." Jim frowned. "And, you know what? He died anyway just a few months later, and I wasn't even there when it happened. I wasn't near him. I couldn't stop it."

Blair had to ask, "Why are you telling me this, Jim?"

"I think...I've learned my lesson. I want to be with you, Chief. We could be pretty dangerous together. But I want it anyway. I want...us. If you do."

Blair slipped his hands around Jim's waist, linking them behind the small of his back. "I'd like that, Jim. I'd like that a lot."

Jim gave a brilliant smile. Then he leaned down, his hand sliding up beneath Blair's hair to cup his head, directing him against Jim's soft lips. Soft, but mobile, seeking the perfect angle, finding it, locking against Blair's lips and tugging.

Blair's heart kicked again, up to a higher gear, and he felt Jim's lips lift in a smile against his.

"Sweet," Jim murmured, his knuckles rubbing softly against Blair's cheek. "You're so sweet." He pulled back. "What's a sweet kid like you doing with an old burn-out like me?"

"I'm not a kid," Blair said, shoving mock-angrily at the wall of Jim's chest. "I'm twenty-six. I've been living on my own since I was sixteen."

"But not anymore," Jim said softly.

"Nope. Not anymore." Blair's mouth opened when Jim's descended again, and this time Blair got aggressive, pressing in with his tongue.

It turned out Jim was the sweet one, because he tasted like chocolate, and was so soft and smooth inside. Blair ran his tongue along the even surface of Jim's front teeth and then past. Jim's tongue twined with his strongly, playfully, and Blair felt heat rise along his neck—he always got a little red when he was turned on, and Jim was turning him on something fierce with just the urgent movement of his tongue and his fingers stroking Blair's scalp.

"I need," Jim said between kisses, "to take you downstairs to my pathetic excuse for a bed."

"Sounds like a plan," Blair said, because his hand was caught in the waistband of Jim's pants, and he needed to see this guy naked and spread out. The thought of it made his knees wobble, so he pulled away and went for the stairs before he lost his ability to walk. He could feel Jim stalking behind him, a big wall of heat.

Jim's bed really was pathetic—a double, and narrow for one. But it was soft, which was a plus, because Jim stripped Blair as soon as he got him inside and then lifted him and just dropped him onto the center of it.

"Sorry," Jim said while he quickly shed his own clothing, but he didn't sound sorry, and Blair sure the hell wasn't, especially when Jim knelt between his legs, lifted his hips, and started kissing his way down Blair's thigh. Jim's dog tags clinked softly against Blair's skin, and Jim took a moment to swing them over his shoulder and out of the way before ducking down. Blair's eyes locked on the dark-furred skull and the way Jim's eyes were closed tight with pleasure as he nuzzled Blair's balls.

Jim looked up. "I haven't done this in a while," he said, his voice low and shaking. "Tell me how to make it good for you, and I will."

"You're doing fine," Blair gasped.

Smiling, Jim tongued the base of Blair's cock, which stiffened fully in response.

Blair groaned. "Jim, come this way. Turn around."

Jim lifted his head and seemed to consider for a moment. Then he shook his head. "No room, Chief." He positioned Blair on his side and then stretched out on his hip on the edge of the bed, one elbow planted by Blair's knees.

Blair saw what he was after a moment later, as the new angle allowed Jim to take Blair's cock into his mouth, deep, in a hard, sucking rush. Blair cried out and shoved with his hips. Jim pulled away a little and used free hand to coax Blair into a good, fast rhythm.

"Oh, God, Jim. Yeah. Your mouth is so good," Blair murmured. He felt it as Jim tried to mumble something.

 _Talking with his mouth full,_ Blair thought hysterically. Jim's tongue was making him insane. Jim's tongue was moving hard, stroking, then going flat and soft and letting Blair fuck against it and the back of Jim's throat. And Jim's mouth was vibrating with his moans, as if he were enjoying it as much as Blair was.

Maybe he was. Who knew how a Sentinel felt giving a blowjob? Only Jim.

Blair looked down at the curl of Jim's body. His head blocked the view of his mouth, but his hard cock was standing stiffly from his lap. Blair wanted his mouth on it, he wanted to suck Jim, taste him in his throat, get it even harder and then have Jim fuck him with it.

The image stuck in his brain and sent his body into overload. He yelled Jim's name and put his hand on his head, holding him still, and then Blair came into Jim's mouth, his hips jerking in time with the pulsing of his cock.

Jim groaned around him, and Blair opened his eyes. He felt Jim swallow, and then Jim's cock suddenly twitched and started spurting while Jim shook all over.

Blair reached down quickly and caught the head of Jim's cock, the slick spunk spilling against his palm as he stroked the crown. Jim lifted his head and groaned, "God. Blair."

Okay, so apparently giving blow jobs was _really_ different for Sentinels. Or maybe it was just Jim.

Or maybe it was just them.

Jim pushed Blair over and sidled up behind him on the bed. His cock was still hard, poking Blair in the back of his thigh.

"You're still hard," Blair observed brilliantly. All his brain cells were on vacation in Hawaii, apparently.

"Yeah. That's another recent development I've noticed..." Jim said.

"It's sense related? Really?" Blair twisted over and met Jim's rueful grimace. "Because—"

Jim kissed him suddenly—shutting him up, Blair suspected, because a second later he pulled back and said, "This piece of information is not for inclusion in your notebook, Chief."

"No! Of course not. But it is an important data point."

"Oh, yeah? Why?" Jim asked warily.

"Because I really, really want to suck your cock."

Jim's expression was priceless. Blair had to kiss him for it, and then he started working his way down Jim's chest to play with his nipples. Jim almost fell off the bed at that point, so they got repositioned, Jim flat on his back, and Blair continued down. He got to suck Jim's cock, although he didn't get fucked as he had planned because Jim came like crazy a few minutes later.

Still, that was just fine. Blair figured there'd be plenty of other opportunities.

They fell asleep mashed front to back, Jim's hand pressed against his chest.

>>><<<

There was a foul taste in Jim's mouth, an ugly kink in his shoulder that threatened to turn into an unholy cramp, and too much heat blanketing up against him in the form of one hot, hairy Sandburg.

Jim was in fucking heaven.

Part of it might have been the fact he hadn't been laid in as long as he could remember, but that was only a small part of it. The much bigger part was the way Blair had touched him the night before. Jim hadn't been touched skin-to-skin in so long—doctors and nurses most definitely didn't count—and it had been even longer since that touch was from someone who really cared, who showed it with every careful stroke of his fingertips across Jim's sensitive skin.

Still, Jim really had to take a piss, and Sandburg was a solid guy. Jim had to squirm to shift himself out from under.

Blair gave a garbled protest before snuffling down into the pillow. Jim grinned and threw on his robe before heading upstairs to the bathroom.

He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth and shaved, started the coffeemaker, and then headed back downstairs.

Sandburg was still sacked out, his hair half-covering his face. Jim sat on the edge of the bed and took a curl between his fingers, testing the silky texture, focusing his sight deep, so he could see the curves bending the shafts.

The night before flashed through his mind in a dizzying deluge of sensory recall: the texture of Blair's cock beneath his tongue and the low-pitched moans that had sent shivers up Jim's spine. Waking in the middle of the night to find Blair's hand on him. Blair sprawled on his stomach beneath him, his legs spreading wider, his ass tilting up like a plea. Jim pushing into the silk heat of him and losing his vision in favor of the pure pleasure of Blair snug around him and whimpering. The band of muscle straining to accommodate him, and then the quick flutters as Jim's cock struck over the sweet spot deep inside.

Blair coming. Blair coming and twisting and moaning like a cat.

Jim raised his eyes, his fingers still tangled in curls, to find Blair staring at him. Then Blair's gaze dropped to Jim's groin and he gave a lazy smile.

"Oh, no," Jim said. "No way. You'll wear me out, Chief. I'm an old man, remember?"

"Could've fooled me," Blair said, stretching. Jim's eyes fell on the silver ring threaded through Blair's nipple.

"Now _this_ was a surprise," Jim said, reaching out to give it a gentle tug.

"Untold depths." Blair reached up and tugged Jim's dog tags.

"Uh-huh." Jim gave Blair a light slap on the thigh. "C'mon. I've got the coffee going."

"Mmm. Okay. Sold. But later..."

"Yeah?" Jim stood and tightened his robe around him.

"I wanna plumb _your_ untold depths."

>>><<<

Jim seemed to be having a little trouble getting up the stairs after Blair issued his promise. But that was okay, because it gave Blair more time to peek at that perfect ass.

They bumped around the kitchen together, getting in each other's way, Blair loving every second of it. Until finally Jim gave a little growl and slammed him back against the freezer and laid a kiss on him that made Blair's hair even curlier.

He looked up, out of breath, and Jim's eyes changed. He stroked a thumb below Blair's eye—God, Jim was touching him so tenderly it actually _hurt_ , gut-deep.

"Everything okay?" Blair asked softly.

"Five-by-five," Jim said, but his thumb still rubbed gently, obsessively, moving down Blair's cheek to stroke his lips.

There was a lot they still hadn't talked about, a lot of details to straighten out now that Jim was healthy and they weren't in danger anymore. But the only thing Blair really cared about was the look on Jim's face. Suddenly, seeing that unbearable tenderness, Blair felt like he could ask about the one thing that really mattered.

"When I was a kid," he said, and Jim's eyes popped up to his, "Naomi—that's my mom—she used to drag me around a lot. Place to place, country to country. Every time we'd stop, we'd find someone to crash with, someone to take us in, you know?"

"Doesn't sound like much fun for a kid," Jim said, frowning. His hand rested on Blair's throat.

"Well, it wasn't that bad. I saw some amazing things, and we stayed with some really interesting people. But I always remember wishing we had somewhere to be that was all _ours_ , just ours, you know? I wanted...I wanted..."

"A home."

"Yeah." Blair exhaled, suddenly apprehensive. His pulse thumped.

Jim smiled, a small, sweet smile. "You've got a home now, Blair. For as long as you want it. It's yours."

Blair swallowed, unable to speak. Jim's hand moved down and settled on Blair's chest, just over his heart. Blair could feel it beating against Jim's palm.

"And mine will be right here."

........................  
2007.07.07

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Somewhere to Be Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/749900) by [laurie_ky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurie_ky/pseuds/laurie_ky)




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